


Semi-Charmed Life

by EAWeek



Series: Queen of the Goblins [2]
Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Fantasy, Multiple Crossovers, Mystery, Quests, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-08 12:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 67,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5496686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EAWeek/pseuds/EAWeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six years after her adventures in the Labyrinth, Sarah is now a senior in college.  When two local children disappear under mysterious circumstances, she immediately suspects Jareth’s hand.  But as ever, nothing is what it seems.  Second in a series of three stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue and Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally posted at fanfiction.net. This is an edited version. I'll be posting the story in chapters between Christmas and New Year's, 2015. Please be patient as I edit and post! I will not have internet access for a few days at Christmas, but this story WILL be completed. There also will be a sequel, "Pax Deorum," posted by the end of January 2016.

Title: **Semi-Charmed Life**

Author: E.A. Week

E-mail: e.a.week at gmail dot com

Summary: Six years after her adventures in the Labyrinth, Sarah is now a senior in college. When two local children disappear under mysterious circumstances, she immediately suspects Jareth’s hand. But as ever, nothing is what it seems.

Category: _Labyrinth._

Distribution: Feel free to rec or link to this story, but **please** drop me at least a brief e-mail and let me know you've done this.

Feedback: Letters of comment are always welcome! Loved it? Hated it? Leave a review, send me a PM or an email and let me know why!

Disclaimer: Copyrights to all characters in this story belong to their respective creators, production companies, and studios. I’m just borrowing them, honest!

Credit where credit is due: The story title is stolen from Third Eye Blind. Prologue title stolen from Alanis Morissette. Part I title stolen from the Gin Blossoms.

Story rating: This story is rated M (mature/ explicit) for language, sexuality, and adult themes.

 

Prologue

_Uninvited_

From her window on the top floor of the high tower, Sarah gazed down at the goblins cavorting in the grassy courtyard below. Small, tall, reed-thin, round, some with horns, others with leathery wings. Very faintly, she could hear their shrieks and cackles and laughter. Goblins. _Always goblins_. She studied their faces: lewd, lascivious, merry, grotesque, fearsome.

A warm breeze gusted past the open windows, ruffling the ivy leaves: green, mostly, but autumn’s cold fingers had begun to lace the verdant foliage with threads of gold and orange and crimson. Sarah shivered; despite the warmth of the day, winter’s approach could not be denied.

As she watched, a tall, slim male figure appeared, a long black cloak swirling about his black boots. Pale hair fell around his shoulders. At a gesture from the man, the goblins ceased their unruly activity and settled down—as much as goblins ever can. The man turned, sweeping with his cloak, and the goblins followed him out of the courtyard as if he were the Pied Piper. The emerald grass looked sad and bare, the sunny day empty and bereft.

Near Sarah’s ear, a bird hooted softly.

Part I

_Found Out About You_

“Sarah… Sarah?”

Blinking, Sarah Williams turned away from the window of her dormitory room. From the eves of the building came the hoots and coos of mourning doves. In the doorway—she’d left her door open, absentmindedly—stood Raelin Bourke, another senior, and Sarah’s best friend.

“Yeah?”

Raelin laughed. “You looked a thousand miles away.”

“I was watching the kids… they looked like they were having a blast.”

“The kids in that theater group Leon Lazerow is running?” asked Raelin. Leon Lazerow was one of Riley Hall’s artists-in-residence for the year.

“Yeah, they were all parading over to the amphitheater.” Sarah came away from the window, stepping around a couple of cardboard boxes. The semester was well underway, and she’d yet to finish unpacking. “What’s up?”

“Can you give me a hand with something? There’s this secondhand shop downtown, and they have a cool mirror, but I can’t get it back here by myself.”

“Sure,” said Sarah, glad to avoid the things she ought to be doing—homework, unpacking, meeting with her advisor. “Let me get my bag.”

Outside the dorm, they crossed the small lawn and trooped across the road, up a hill into the student parking lot. Riley Hall sat atop a gentle swell of land overlooking one of Oneida University’s famous gorges. The Tudor-Gothic red-brick dormitory, a haven for arts students, had been whimsically designed to resemble a castle, and thanks to staggeringly good luck in the room-choosing lottery, Sarah had scored the prize of prizes: a single room at the top of the building’s central turret. Raelin had a room on the fourth floor.

“I always wanted to live in a castle,” Sarah laughed as they climbed into her Volkswagen Rabbit.

“Doesn’t every girl?” Raelin buckled herself in. “I think it goes with the whole princess and pony phase. I outgrew it around the same time I outgrew the Barbies.”

“I never really had a Barbie phase—dolls were just models to put costumes on.” Sarah steered the VW through campus and onto the main road. While she waited for a traffic light to turn green, she recalled those days: the amateur theatrics, the role-playing games, the endless daydreams and fantasies. While other girls had been giggling over pictures of Duran Duran in _Tiger Beat_ , Sarah had been reading Tolkien and CS Lewis. Other girls had learned instruments and played sports; Sarah had taught herself embroidery and weaving. She thought of her closet full of costumes, Gunne Sax dresses, and Betsey Johnson prairie skirts. Those days were over now, utterly gone, a world and a life to which she could never return. Even poor Merlin was gone, too, off to the Happy Hunting Grounds.

The honking horn of another car brought Sarah back to the present, and she tapped the accelerator, scolding herself. Daydreaming was still her worst tendency, even years after she’d channeled her childhood dreams into a credible academic career. Great literature had replaced the books she now regarded as pulp fantasy; her paintings and textiles had won her acclaim in art courses; her love of knights and castles had morphed into a mature interest in the art history of medieval Europe. Resolutely she had put aside childish things: she’d made friends, learned to drive, won acceptance to a prestigious, competitive university. Still, she couldn’t help feeling she’d lost something precious, and the urge to return to that dream-world tempted her more often than not.

“Here.” Raelin pointed a long brown arm to a storefront on the right. Sarah squeezed the VW into an empty space—parallel parking was an adult skill in which she took great pride—and cut the engine.

The secondhand shop was a new business, and a sign in the window advertised a grand opening sale. Inside, Sarah stood still for a moment, enchanted by the must, the dust, the dry, papery smell of oldness—old books, old clothes, old furniture.

“Awesome, huh?” Raelin laughed.

“Kick me if I pull out my Visa,” Sarah responded.

“Will do.”

The two girls strolled about the shop. The last thing Sarah needed was more books, but she couldn’t help perusing a bin of used paperbacks, the pages yellowed, the bindings creased. In another bin was a collection of vinyl records, popular entertainment from decades past, now rendered all but obsolete by the advent of the compact disk. On portable clothes racks hung an eclectic variety of garments. Sarah pushed the hangers along the rails, smiling and shaking her head at the absurd and outdated fashions.

“Here’s the mirror.” Raelin gestured to a gilt-edged thing, almost full-length. Sarah’s heart compressed; the mirror reminded her too much of one she’d had back in her old room…

“How much is it?” asked Sarah, trying to distract herself.

“Twenty bucks. Isn’t it awesome?”

“Yeah, what a relic!”

Sarah waited while Raelin paid for the new acquisition. On the counter near the cash register sat a box of hardcover books.

The shop’s owner, a middle-aged woman with sparkling eyes, noticed the direction of Sarah’s gaze. “I just got those in today,” she stated. “If you want one of them, name your price.”

“Are you sure? They might be valuable,” Sarah protested.

“If anything in there is worth more than a buck, I’ll eat it.”

Sarah rummaged through the box, reading the titles. There was nothing really remarkable here, either books she already owned or which held no interest for her. Cyrillic lettering proclaimed several volumes of Russian literature. She’d reached the bottom, pushing aside a collection of Shakespeare’s tragedies, when her hand closed over a small, slim volume. Poetry? Sarah prized free the book, and when she saw the title on the cover, she reeled with shock. The binding of the book was red, the pages yellowed, and embossed in the leather were the words

 _The Labyrinth_.

Stunned, she just stood rooted to one spot, staring down at the thing. _It can’t be_. Her copy of this book had burned, burned with the rest of her childhood home. How could it be here? Trembling, she opened the volume to its title page.

_The Labyrinth_

_A play in five acts._

_A.C.H. Smith_

_Bewlay Brothers Ltd., London, 1905._

Sarah still remembered the day she had discovered the book among her mother’s childhood possessions. “Keep it, darling,” Linda had laughed. The book had belonged to Linda’s mother, another actress, who’d apparently referred to the author as “a poor man’s JM Barrie.” The story—the Goblin King and the beautiful princess and the kidnapped child—was a play meant to be performed by children. Sarah’s grandmother had starred in a London production before the First World War.

“What’s that?” asked Raelin.

Sarah showed her the book, holding it up so Raelin could see the cover.

“It’s an old kids’ play,” Sarah told her. “I used to have a copy that belonged to my grandmother. I lost it when our house burned down.”

Raelin made a sympathetic clucking noise. “So, buy it already. Unless…” she trailed off, but Sarah could finish the sentence. _Unless it’s too painful a reminder_.

Sarah wavered. She didn’t need this, a troubling memento of an incident so bizarre that she’d never be able to convince any rational person that it had even happened. On the other hand, if she didn’t buy the book, she knew she wouldn’t be able to keep her mind off it, and if she came back later, the play might be gone.

“I’ll give you a dollar for it,” she told the shopkeeper.

“Sold,” the woman agreed.

Raelin held the book while Sarah rummaged for her wallet. She turned back to the book’s flyleaf and said, “Hey, Victoria Hammersmith. Isn’t that your advisor?”

“What?” Sarah peered over Raelin’s shoulder. On the flyleaf, in a beautiful if childish script, someone had written the words, _Property of Victoria Pendleton Hammersmith_.

“This must be hers.” Sarah glanced up at the shopkeeper. “Did she bring it here?”

“Tweedy, gray pageboy, kind of an accent?” the woman asked.

“That’s her. This is her handwriting, too.” Sarah studied the writing on the flyleaf, an immature version of the hand she knew well.

“She brought the books in this morning,” the woman said.

“Fair game, then,” said Raelin, “if she was getting rid of it anyway.”

Sarah slipped the book into her shoulder bag. The play no longer seemed so sinister, now that she knew Professor Hammersmith had also owned a copy. _I knew there was a reason I liked her_ , Sarah thought wryly. _The Labyrinth_ was only a story, after all, and this volume wasn’t even Sarah’s, just another copy, which had been once owned by someone else. Never mind that in the hands of an imaginative fifteen-year-old, the play had possessed the power to summon beings from another realm…

“Come on,” said Raelin, and Sarah took one end of the mirror. Carefully they maneuvered it out to the Volkswagen, where they propped it in the backseat, cushioned with sweatshirts. Sarah drove back to campus with excessive caution, taking each corner slowly, so that the mirror wouldn’t bump around and break. The last thing she needed was seven years’ bad luck.

(ii)

The corridors of DiCiccio Hall rang with voices as students came and went, changing classes. The Department of Art History occupied most of the fourth floor, and the department chair, Professor Victoria Hammersmith, had a suite of offices under the eaves in one corner.

In the outer office, two children sat studiously doing homework at a big, wooden table. As one, they looked up when Sarah entered. She tried to ignore the unsettling scrutiny of their piercing gray eyes.

“Hi, guys,” she said, aiming for friendliness, but she could hear the strain in her voice. She hadn’t seen the twins since her sophomore year, but she resisted the urge to remark on how they’d grown. They must be eleven or twelve by now, probably in the fifth or sixth grade. “Is your mom here?”

Sarah hated the way their eyes met, as if in some silent communication, before responding.

“She’s in a meeting.” Sacha, the boy, spoke.

“Oh.” Sarah made no further efforts to engage the two in conversation, pretending to absorb herself in some books on the well-stocked shelves.

The children returned to their homework; they must be here waiting for their mother. Sarah stole surreptitious glances at them. Opposite-sex twins were of course always fraternal, but Sacha and his sister Ivanka were like clones of each other: the small, slim bodies, the dark blonde hair, the gray eyes that seemed to see too much. Sarah had never liked them.

A few moments later, the door to Professor Hammersmith’s office opened, and a male student lurched over the threshold, nearly colliding with Sarah. He mumbled an apology and departed, glaring back over his shoulder at the two kids. Almost imperceptibly, Sacha smirked.

Sarah stumbled into Victoria’s office, feeling numb in her extremities, as if her hands and feet had fallen asleep. She steadied herself on Professor Hammersmith’s table and lowered herself carefully into a chair.

Sarah’s first thought was that her advisor looked old, worn, exhausted. Still, Victoria mustered a smile. “Welcome back,” she said, a tepid greeting considering they hadn’t seen each other in nearly sixteen months; Sarah had spent her junior year in France.

“Hi,” Sarah answered, glad when Professor Hammersmith closed the office door, cutting off the twins’ view; her hands and feet began to feel normal again. “How’s it going?”

“All right.” Victoria’s small office was cluttered—a normal thing for most academics, but odd for her. “How are your classes?” she asked. Her voice held the faintest traces of a British accent; she’d come to the States as an adolescent.

“Going well, thanks,” Sarah responded. “I just needed to talk about my independent study.” She avoided saying “thesis;” the word was too big, too scary. Then she had to smile at herself. She’d spent a year navigating a foreign country—different language, different currency, different customs—and had not only managed, but thrived. And even younger than that, she’d navigated a baffling maze populated by strange creatures, dealt with shifting topography and perilous traps, finally defeating an adversary who could seemingly bend reality to his will. Why, then, did the thought of writing a long research paper and defending it to a small faculty committee rattle her?

“What?” Victoria said. “That’s an enigmatic smile, if ever I saw one.”

Sarah laughed. “It’s nothing.” She fished into her shoulder bag. “I was in the new secondhand shop downtown, and I found this.” She pulled out the play and showed it to her advisor. “I bought it, but I wanted to make sure it hadn’t been jumbled in with the other books by mistake.”

Victoria’s expression grew pained. She looked at the book, but didn’t touch it.

“My mother gave that to me,” she said. “I outgrew it a long time ago. My kids outgrew it by the time they were six… too boring, they think now. I was getting rid of some of Yasha’s things…” A tremor seemed to pass through her. At Sarah’s blank expression, she said, “You didn’t hear? I’m getting a divorce.”

Breath whistling out, Sarah said, “Oh, God, I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. We’re legally separated. I have custody of the twins; he has visitation rights.” She paused to gulp from a tea mug that sat on her desk. “He’s moved in with his girlfriend.”

“Wow, I’m really sorry.” Sarah didn’t know what else to say. Her contact with Yakov Vasiliev had been limited. She’d last seen him at the department holiday party her sophomore year. They’d talked; she’d found him charming, but his gaze had dropped once too often to the front of her sweater. He was on the faculty of Slavic Languages and Literature. Sarah could only imagine how awkward it would be for Victoria to continue working at the same university as her soon-to-be ex-husband.

“Yes. Well.” Victoria’s shoulders rose and fell. “He traded in for a younger model. A grad student working in his department.”

“What a sleaze! I’m sorry.” Casting about for a less painful topic, Sarah asked, “So, you don’t want this anymore?” She waved the small, red book.

“No, I really don’t want it.” Victoria sounded very firm. Maybe, like Sarah herself, she didn’t need the reminder of more innocent days.

“Okay.” Sarah confided, “I used to have a copy, but our house burned down when I was still in high school.”

Victoria winced. “That’s terrible.”

“Yeah.” Sarah tried not to relive that night, but even now, it haunted her dreams: Merlin’s frantic barks (good dog; he’d alerted them to danger even before the fire alarm had gone off), the choking smoke, the frantic scramble down the stairs, hand over her mouth, Toby in her father’s arms, wailing. There had been the deep blares of fire truck horns, and the thundering streams of water, impotent, unable to stop the ferocious blaze. Sarah and her family had stood back at a safe distance, watching as their beautiful home was reduced to a blackened-out shell. Irene’s sobs had been heartrending. The days following the fire were the only time Sarah had enjoyed any kind of closeness with her stepmother.

“By all means, keep it,” Victoria said. She picked up a manila folder containing Sarah’s academic records.

Both women set aside their private tragedies to focus on Sarah’s independent study, and Sarah showed Victoria photos from her junior year in France, images of the work she’d done assisting with the excavation of a crumbling medieval cathedral. She intended to write her paper on the iconography of calendar images on church façades. The hour flew past, and as the chapel tower clock struck five, Victoria said, “This is excellent work, Sarah. I don’t see why you couldn’t present this for thesis honors next spring.”

“Yeah,” Sarah agreed, unable to quell the butterflies in her stomach.

“It’ll be a valuable thing to have on your resume, especially if we can find a way to have it published. That would be an impressive accomplishment for an undergraduate.”

“Whoa, heady stuff,” laughed Sarah.

“Have you thought about grad school?”

“A little.” In reality, Sarah had been obsessing over it for several weeks.

“You should. If I may be so immodest, the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor has an excellent art history program. You have the right mindset for an academic.” Victoria’s eyes crinkled when she smiled. “Just don’t marry one. They have egos the size of Jupiter.”

Sarah laughed again, standing. “I’ll get that review of literature to you by next week.”

“Good. Enjoy the weekend, Sarah.”

“See ya.”

Back out in the anteroom, Sarah regarded Victoria’s children with new eyes. Having their parents divorce couldn’t be an easy thing. Still, she couldn’t help a vague sense of—what? Dislike? Distrust? Just a feeling that something about the two kids was off-kilter in some nebulous way? Part of it might be cultural, Sarah reasoned. Victoria and Yakov had raised the twins in St. Petersburg for two years, and Russian was their first language. Maybe Sarah’s uneasiness stemmed from the kids not gesturing and expressing quite like American youngsters. Sarah also knew from her psychology courses—she’d taken a lot of them, perhaps trying to understand things that couldn’t be understood—that twins sometimes shared an odd bond—they communicated with each other in unique ways, often giving off a sense almost of supernatural collusion.

Sarah told herself to stop being silly, but when Ivanka smiled in response to Sarah’s nod of farewell, Sarah experienced something akin to physical pain, and a burning wave of gooseflesh erupted over her skin. Sarah wrenched away her gaze and hurried from the office. She couldn’t hear anything as she retreated, but she felt certain Sacha and Ivanka were laughing at her.

(iii)

The next afternoon, Sarah sequestered herself in the library stacks, determined to make a start on her review of literature. Thankfully, Oneida University’s entire catalog was computerized—a far cry from the card-catalog days of Sarah’s youth—making her initial search easier. The long list of books led her up to the sixth floor, where she perused volume after volume of history, art, and architecture. Some of the works were in French, fluency in which Sarah had spent years acquiring.

After two hours, Sarah had compiled a long, though far from exhaustive, list of works. She grimaced, standing up to stretch, then returned most of the books to a nearby cart. The prospect of actually _reading_ so much verbiage tired and depressed her: thick, heavy volumes, languishing on the shelves, accumulating dust. Sarah took six of the more interesting selections down to the main circulation desk, where she used her student ID card to check them out. Not one of the volumes had been signed out of the library in less than ten years.

 _Not many kids here interested in medieval calendar art_ , Sarah thought, trudging across campus to the parking lot. _At least I’m doing something original_. She thought of the student theses she’d pored over yesterday, thick black-bound volumes on the Art History department’s office shelves, the meticulous footnotes in ten-point font, the endless pages of references. She imagined, in nine or ten months’ time, another volume added to the collection: “‘The Labors of the Months and the Signs of the Zodiac on French Romanesque Façades,’ by Sarah Elisabeth Williams, submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the Bachelor of Arts in Art History, with honors, May 1993.” Instead of filling her with excitement and pride, the thought filled her with ennui and despair.

She dumped her books into the backseat of the VW and started the engine, turning up the heat. Autumn was settling over central New York. In another month or six weeks, snow would fly. Sarah drove back to the residential campus, brooding over her future. Was this what she really wanted, a life full of books nobody ever read, cups of tea, conferences, dry academia? Sarah Williams, Ph.D., a professor at some staid, red-brick, ivy-covered university?

If not that, what did she really want? Sarah winced: all through childhood, she’d wanted to be like her mother, an actress in stage plays, facing the adulation of the masses, night after night. As an adult, she realized how vanishingly few young hopefuls achieved success in theater. Sarah’s lack of thespian ability had been too obvious from an early age, no matter how many drama classes she took, no matter how many theater camps she attended. By fifteen, she’d been reduced to performing children’s plays for Merlin in the town park.

Anyway, Sarah had harbored no genuine love of dramatic literature or the grand history of theater. She preferred fantasies, supernatural tales of fairies and princesses and castles. Her interest in acting had never matured beyond the purely juvenile: the pretty costumes and sets, the opportunity to live a vicarious, fictional life, to be someone else: more powerful, more glamorous, less awkward, less _weird_. As Sarah drove along the winding roads, she recalled that what she’d wanted was not so much to _act_ in plays but to _live_ in them. To be pampered and spoiled forever. To never endure the myriad drudgeries of adulthood.

Sara grinned a little. Not that adulthood didn’t have its moments—freedom, travel, the satisfaction of setting her own course, being her own master—to say nothing of more carnal pleasures—alcohol and sex. Still, Sarah often thought adulthood wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. It seemed like so much work for so little joy.

She circled around the crowded Riley parking lot, finding an empty spot at the outer perimeter. The lights didn’t provide much illumination, leaving the lot in near-darkness. Sarah swung her bag around her shoulders and grabbed the armload of books, slamming shut the door to the VW.

She heard the noise almost right away, a kind of high-pitched chittering, somewhere between insect and bird. Sarah’s ears pricked, recognizing almost by instinct the unnaturalness of the sound, which seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. She wove her way among the cars, glancing up and around. There—by those trees—had she glimpsed stealthy movement, high up? The red-gold leaves took on a sepia tone in the fitful glare of the sodium arc lights. Cast against the leaves, for the barest fraction of an instant, Sarah saw the shadow of a wing. A moment later, it was gone. Her blood ran cold: the shadow was too big. Nothing in nature had wings like that: long, narrow, almost dragonfly-like in its silhouette. She quickened her footsteps. _Not again_.

Then Sarah saw the man. He stood over near the trees, almost invisible in the shadows. He stepped back, but not before Sarah had a good look at him: middle-aged, balding, seedy. She fairly flew down the steps and across the road to the safety of Riley, stumbling into the dorm in a breathless whirl.

“Call security.” She burst in on the student working the main desk in the foyer.

“Whassup?” he asked.

“There’s a creepy guy in the parking lot,” Sarah said.

His eyebrows went up, but he placed the call, spoke briefly, then handed the receiver to Sarah.

When questioned, she recounted everything she’d observed. The security guard promised to check it out, but Sarah knew the man would be long gone. Still, she asked the student at the desk to post a sign warning Riley’s residents to exercise caution in the campus parking lots.

Telling herself she’d done everything she could, Sarah went upstairs, stopping first at Raelin’s room before proceeding up to the tower.

She stood for a full five minutes at the open window, listening, but she heard no more of the odd noise, only the faint sounds of cars, music, and student voices. Sarah closed the windows and drew the curtains, although that did little to ease her sense of anxiety. All through dinner in the great hall—modeled on the refectory at Christ Church, Oxford, another feature Sarah loved—she kept jolting, staring over her shoulder, imagining she saw things in the corners of her eyes. After the meal ended, she sequestered herself in her room, forcing herself to do homework until her neck ached and her vision blurred. She showered, then curled up in bed with _The Labyrinth_ , re-reading and remembering passages that had dimmed in memory but never faded entirely.

Sunlight the next morning provided some reassurance—at least until a female security guard came into the dining hall and flagged her down.

“Sarah Williams?”

“Yes?”

“You called us last night about a man loitering in the Riley parking lot?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Can you come with me please?”

“Sure.” Sarah grabbed her bag. “I hope I’m not in trouble?”

“No,” the woman said, but Sarah could feel an ominous weight behind the word.

The guard drove her a short distance, to the other side of the residential campus. A scrubby wooded patch had been cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. There were campus security vehicles and city police cruisers, as well as a sturdy white vehicle marked “medical examiner’s office.” The very sight of it made Sarah sick with apprehension. Somehow she knew what she would see before the female guard led her around the truck and underneath the security tape.

A cop who’d been standing around came over to them. “Miss Williams?”

“Yes?” she gulped, staring past him at the thing on the ground.

More gently than she’d expected, he said, “I know this is difficult, but can you take a look at the body? You’ll only see his face. We need to confirm whether he was the guy you saw last night.”

She took a deep breath, bracing herself. “Okay.”

The cop nodded to a man swathed in a protective white paper suit. The technician drew back the sheet away from the dead man’s face, down to the shoulders.

The female security guard kept a steadying hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “Is that him?”

The body was simultaneously not as bad as and worse than Sarah had anticipated. He looked small, shrunken, like a wax dummy. Sarah had feared the body would smell, but the cool, fresh breeze dispelled whatever odor there might have been. His skin had turned the color of jaundiced clay. The horrible thing was his mouth. It looked like someone had stuffed his mouth full of rose petals. They’d fluttered out, onto his shirt, the grass, the ME’s clinical sheet.

“What—what?” she gasped. “Who did that? Is it some kind of joke?”

The male cop shrugged.

“It’s him,” she said. She recognized the face, the bald head framed by wispy gray curls, the dingy-looking baseball jacket. The body looked damp, and Sarah realized the grass was wet, the ground muddy.

“All right,” the cop said, nodding in a way that indicated Sarah was dismissed. The technician re-covered the dead man’s face.

On the drive back to Riley, Sarah ventured, “Who was he? Does anyone know?”

The security guard shrugged. “It’s possible he’s a guy who’s been exposing himself to female students at schools and colleges in northern Pennsylvania. This is the first time he’s been spotted anywhere in New York.”

“Did someone… you know, murder him?”

The guard said, “I think for now they’re treating it as a homicide.”

“Jesus,” Sarah muttered. “Do I need to do anything else?”

“Just provide a written statement,” the woman answered. Then, “Is there anyone who can confirm where you were last night?”

“Sure, almost everyone in the dorm,” Sarah responded. “I didn’t go anywhere after I got inside, trust me. I didn’t feel like roaming around campus with Mr. Creepoid at large.”

“Okay.” When they got back to Riley, Sarah gave the woman a complete description of what had happened the night before, and the names of the students she’d dined with. That seemed to satisfy any legal obligations Sarah might have to the case. She doubted it would ever get to court. Under other circumstances, she might have wondered who had murdered the man. Was it a case of self-defense gone horribly wrong? Did the rose petals represent some kind of mockery? A bold if twisted feminist statement against sexual harassment? But given Sarah’s past experiences, she didn’t seriously consider any of those possibilities. Instead she wondered if her old nemesis were stirring again. But was he protecting her? Or warning her? Or threatening her? Sarah shuddered: she had a dreadful feeling that it wouldn’t be long before she learned the answer.

(iv)

“Sarah… hey, Sarah!”

She turned around to see another student loping up alongside her. She’d just gotten off the campus shuttle; the incident with the dead man had prompted her to avoid parking lots. The other student—Sarah couldn’t remember his name—must have been riding the same bus. He was weedy and gangly, two or three inches taller than Sarah. Dark hair fell into his eyes, and he brushed it aside as he came to a skidding halt.

“Hi,” she said, vainly searching her memory for his name. Dan? Doug? Dave?

“Hey,” he said, shifting his backpack, a self-conscious gesture. “They said you got called in to ID a body?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“You okay?” he asked.

His concern appeared genuine enough, but Sarah’s experience with men had taught her to expect ulterior motives. Sometimes she could get a date out of it. she made a quick bet with herself: five minutes before he started hitting on her.

“Yeah, I’m all right,” she said. “Still a little wigged out over it—you know?”

“Was it awful?” he said. “You know—gross, or anything?”

“No. That kind of surprised me,” Sarah responded. “With the ground so wet, I figured it’d be gross, but it didn’t smell, thank God.”

“The ground was wet?” the boy asked. Doug? Sarah was pretty sure his name was Doug. Like Sarah, he had lived in Riley since sophomore year, but they’d moved in different circles socially, the difference being that Doug actually _had_ a social circle. Sarah tried to remember his major. Theater? Studio art?

“Yeah, the ground was soaked,” Sarah told him. “It must’ve rained last night.” They walked up Riley’s front steps, and Doug held the door for Sarah.

“It didn’t,” he said. “There’ve been brushfire warnings in the state parks.”

“Seriously?” asked Sarah, remembering the wet grass and trees. There had been a lot of rain in early September, but none since.

“Yeah, seriously.”

“The ground was soaked,” Sarah said. “Like someone took a hose to it.”

“It didn’t rain,” Doug insisted. “There’s a drain spout right outside my window—trust me, I hear it when it rains.” Eyes bright, he said, “Maybe you should tell the police.” He poked her side with his elbow. “A clue!”

Sarah gave him a patient smile. “I’m pretty sure they noticed,” she said. “They’re kind of trained to pick up stuff like that.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right.” Doug’s shoulders slumped. They passed by a prominent flyer for Riley’s annual Halloween party. Jerking his head in the poster’s direction, he said, “You going to that?”

Less than five minutes. If Sarah had been a gambler, she’d be a millionaire by now. On the other hand, she gave Doug a lot of credit for keeping his gaze fixed firmly on her face.

“Sure I’m going.” She smiled. “Isn’t everyone?”

Relief swept over his features. “So, wanno go? Um, with me?”

Sarah’s grin widened. “What are you wearing?”

“Not sure yet,” he said. “Maybe I’ll raid the bio lab for a skull and go as Hamlet.” He held out one hand in a dramatic pantomime. “‘Alas poor Yorick, I knew him well.’” Maybe he was in theater. “What about you?”

“No clue,” Sarah responded. “I might hit the secondhand shop and get something tacky and seventies—go as a reject from _Welcome Back, Kotter_.”

He laughed. “Okay!” They went into the great hall together for lunch. Sarah kept hoping someone would turn up and greet the poor kid by his name.

(v)

“Did I see you having lunch with Danny Foster?” asked Raelin.

Sarah set down her textbook, exhaling. “ _That’s_ his name! Thank God I wormed my way out of actually addressing him—I kept thinking it was Doug.”

Raelin flopped down on Sarah’s bed. “He’s pretty cute. Do you like him?”

“He’s okay,” Sarah responded. “He gets props for not looking at my chest once during lunch. I don’t really know him, though.”

“He’s in studio art, focusing in sculpture,” Raelin provided. “Didn’t you see the clay under his nails?”

“Nope.”

“He’s kind of hot,” said Raelin. “He was a dweeb freshman year, but he grew out of it. I think he used to play soccer.”

“His skin is good, even if he’s missing his eyebrows,” Sarah laughed. “I wanted to say he’d make a good Frankenstein’s monster, but it seemed too mean. Besides, I’m sure he’s heard that one before—his face is like a perfect rectangle. He’s not bad.”

“Just ‘not bad?’” Raelin teased.

“That might be upgraded to ‘nice’ after Halloween.”

“He asked you out?”

“Yeah,” Sarah responded.

Cocking her head, Raelin asked, “Do I detect a certain lack of enthusiasm?”

“Why should I be enthusiastic?” Sarah retorted. “He asked me out. He’s not overtly lecherous. I don’t give out cookies for checking a couple of basic boxes.”

“Jesus, Sarah.” Raelin shook her head. “It’s a good thing we’re not all so cold-blooded.” Genuinely curious, she asked, “So, what do you like in a guy?”

Sarah stared out the window. “Tall, blond, mysterious,” she admitted.

Raelin laughed. “You know, a lot of guys ask if you’re seeing anyone. I tell them the line forms to the left.”

Sarah managed a tired smile. She envied Raelin, who was pretty but unspectacular. Her attractiveness came from inside, from that effervescent personality of hers.

With a cluck, Raelin asked, “Did someone jilt you?”

“Not exactly,” Sarah answered. “There was a guy when I was fifteen. He was older than me, and sort of messed with my head. Bad news. Nothing happened, but you know what it’s like when you crush really badly on someone at that age. It stays with you forever.” That was more than she’d ever revealed to anyone.

Raelin nodded, perhaps sensing there was a deeper story behind Sarah’s sketchy outline. “Yeah. You just keep going, though. Keep dating, and you’ll find the right one.”

“Yeah.” That was the conventional wisdom, wasn’t it? Just keep looking. Lots of good fish in the sea. The summer before she’d started Oneida, Sarah had had her first love affair, with a guy she’d met in a Latin class at Syracuse. He’d been a virgin, too, and they’d reveled in the mutual newness, the mutual exploration and discovery. The fling had ended when they’d both left for college—he was heading for the west coast and USC. There had been a lot of casual dating her first two years at Oneida, but she’d only had her second affair in France. _Every woman should have at least one French lover_ , Sarah thought, but she knew her choice of partners had been deliberate: guys she’d been pretty sure she’d never see again. The experiences had both been memorable, but finite.

She winced, wondering if she’d accepted Danny’s offer of a date for similar reasons: she knew the following spring would see them going in different directions.

“So, what are you gonna wear?” asked Raelin, eyes asparkle. “We’ll have to find you something spectacular.”

“No clue,” Sarah answered. She couldn’t possibly top Raelin for creativity. Sophomore year, Raelin had draped herself in a blue sheet to which she’d pinned two dozen Tampax soaked in blue paint. When asked, she’d said she was “Picasso’s blue period.” Sarah would never be able to think of anything half so clever.

“Let me know if you need any help,” Raelin invited. “With your looks, you could do pretty much anything. We could truss you up in eighteenth-century gear, splatter a little blood on your neck, and pretend you’re Marie Antoinette on the way to the guillotine.”

“Oh, super!” Sarah laughed. “Ew! Besides, Marie Antoinette means corsets. No thanks.”

“Well, look around,” said Raelin. “But start thinking—if you wait too long, everything’ll be gone.” She wasn’t kidding. Halloween at Oneida—especially in Riley Hall—was a big, big deal, and it wasn’t unusual for students to arrive on campus in August with their costumes already chosen. If Sarah wanted to rent or create something, she needed to start soon. _Another thing to worry about_.

“Yeah,” she responded. “I’ll let you know if inspiration strikes. And if you have any good ideas, you know where I live.”

Raelin grinned. “For sure.”

(vi)

Sarah woke up in the dim pre-dawn light, aware of a heavy, muzzy feeling. _God, I am **not** getting sick_ , she groaned to herself. It was mid-October; she had two short papers due and a midterm exam within the next week.

When she sat upright, something slid off her blanket and hit the floor with a solid thunk. A book? She’d been rereading _The Labyrinth_ (again!) before bed, but the slim volume sat next to her alarm clock, atop the small refrigerator that doubled as Sarah’s nightstand.

Sarah switched on a lamp and leaned down. Her hand closed over a smooth, cool, small object. Baffled, she looked at it in the lamplight. She’d never seen anything like it: no bigger than a deck of cards—perhaps three inches wide and about four inches tall, and maybe half an inch thick. Its surface was some kind of hard white plastic, silver on the back.

The front panel fascinated her. There was a tiny gray square, and beneath it a horizontal row of four buttons, and beneath the buttons, a circle. Each tiny button bore a symbol, similar to the controls on a CD player. One of the buttons said “menu.” Curious and uncertain, Sarah touched it with a fingertip.

The gray square lit up.

Sarah nearly shrieked, dropping the thing onto her blanket. She grabbed it, staring at the square, which now glowed a faint, pale blue, like a computer monitor. A list of six items had appeared: playlists, artists, albums, songs, genres, and composers. Sarah had no idea what any of those things meant, and she sat staring at the glowing square before finally venturing a finger to touch the menu button again. A different list appeared. Sarah frowned for a moment. She tried the buttons with the backwards and forwards arrows, but nothing happened. The button to the right of “menu” looked like a play button, but touching it didn’t produce any results, either.

Curious about the circle beneath the row of buttons, Sarah touched the center of it with her finger. The initial list came up again, the word “albums” highlighted by a black bar. Sarah touched the center of the circle again, and yet a third list appeared: all, a-Ha, Aaron Carter, ABBA, ABC, and AC/DC. An alphabetical list. Sarah wondered if there was anything after AC/DC. She tried randomly touching all the buttons on the odd little device, but only succeeded in being bounced around the various lists.

Almost by accident, she brushed her fingertip along the outer edge of the circle, and when she did, the black bar began to move, highlighting different items. In a flash of intuition, Sarah realized that the odd thing in her hand was like a tiny computer, and its various menus could be navigated by lightly tracing her finger clockwise or counterclockwise around the circle. The button in the center of the ring functioned like the “enter” key on a computer keyboard. Every time she touched the wheel and the buttons, the device emitted a funny, soft clicking noise. Navigating her way back to the artist menu, Sarah selected ABBA, which brought up the names of three greatest hits collections.

She scrolled down the list of artists’ names—there were some she recognized, but many she didn’t—looking for something familiar. Spotting Pearl Jam, Sarah touched the enter button and sat blinking at the list of album names. The only one she recognized was _Ten_ , to the best of her knowledge, the band’s only album. What were all those others— _Vs_ , _Vitalogy_ , _No Code_ , _Yield_? Sarah selected _Vitalogy_ and scrolled down a list of song titles.

So what was the point of storing so much album information on this tiny pocket-sized computer? Sarah looked over the thing carefully, noting a narrow, grooved indentation along the bottom. On the top she found a small horizontal button that could be slid back and forth. It said “hold.” And next to it was a small hole with an icon of a pair of headphones.

 _Can you seriously listen to music on this thing?_ Sarah wondered. Only one way to find out. She fetched her Sony Discman and removed the headphones from the jack. Feeling a little foolish, she plugged the phones into the top of the tiny device and slipped the black earpieces over her ears. She navigated the menus until she found _Ten_ , then scrolled down and selected “Alive.”

A moment later, music filled her ears: rich, melodious, crisp, astonishing Sarah with its tone and clarity. The single was so over-played, and yet Sarah felt like she were hearing it for the first time: the guitars, the drums, Eddie Vedder’s snarling, moaning vocals.

She listened to the song all the way through, then began scrolling through other menus. “Playlists” yielded a host of interesting selections. Some were organized by artist—ABBA, Alan Parsons Project, the Beatles—as well as by genre: rock, country, classical, disco, world. Sarah perused the songs listed under each playlist. Much of the music was things she liked. Randomly she selected “Danse Macabre” from the classical list, delighting in the sound quality; it seemed she could detect every single instrument in the orchestra. Not even her Discman produced sound like this.

Some of the playlists puzzled her, though. Eighties, sure. Nineties—okay, even if the decade was less than three years old. But one list was titled “2000 and Beyond,” and Sarah recognized nothing on it. Was it a joke? Under the playlist for U2, Sarah recognized the album titles up through _Achtung Baby_ , but there were four she’d never heard of, and she’d been following U2 since grade school.

“Danse Macabre” ended, and “Carmina Burana” began playing. Sarah turned over the odd device and noticed for the first time the Apple logo. Beneath that was the word “iPod” and lower down, near the bottom, “20 GB.”

 _Twenty gigabytes?_ Could that be right? On such a tiny thing? Most of the computers on campus, even the good ones, had maybe one gig of memory in their hard drives. How could something so small have so much memory on it?

Squinting, Sarah read the microscopic lettering etched into the metal at the bottom of the panel. _Copyright 2003 Apple Computers, Inc_.

No way! No way! 2003? Then Sarah asked herself a question that should have occurred to her a lot sooner: where had this thing come from?

Sarah yanked back her curtains and drew up the blinds. She pushed open the windows and thrust her head outside, looking around the roof and the eaves. No sign of an owl. She leaned back inside and closed the windows.

She could think of no other explanation for the mysterious presence of the miniature computer: it must have come from the future. But how? Then she wondered: did she even need to ask? Didn’t she already know? Did she really _want_ to know?

Sarah touched the play button and watched the tiny screen grow dark. Then she hid the device in a bureau drawer, beneath a pile of T-shirts. All through that day, as she went about her normal activities, she could feel its weight in her mind, glowing like a radioactive substance.

(vii)

Going through the line at breakfast the next morning, Sarah bumped into another girl and exclaimed, “Nora?”

The girl laughed, reaching out an arm in an awkward sideways hug. “It’s been forever—

you were in France last year, right?”

“ _Oui_ ,” Sarah joked. “Where’ve you been? I haven’t seen you since I got back on campus.”

“Student teaching,” said Nora, shifting to let another kid get past. “Five days a week from seven-thirty ‘till three, then I have classes.”

“What a grind,” Sarah laughed.

“Only this semester,” Nora responded. Sarah remembered that Nora was an art education major. They’d lived on the same floor sophomore year, and they’d spent a lot of time engrossed in deep, philosophical conversations in the girls’ bathroom. They’d never been close friends, but Sarah had found Nora quite likable.

“So, what’re you doing here now?” asked Sarah. “Do you have the day off?”

“No, the school’s closed,” Nora said. They took their trays and went out to find seats at one of the long tables.

“Holiday?” asked Sarah.

“A teacher died. The circumstances were pretty weird. Maybe not murder, but weird.”

Nora dropped this so casually as she opened a box of Lucky Charms that Sarah almost put an elbow in her stack of French toast.

“Shit,” Sarah breathed. “What happened?”

“We got phone calls last night not to come in today. My professor said they found her body on the school grounds—her husband called the cops when she didn’t come home.”

“Oh, my God! Do you know her?”

“Not really. She teaches in the upper school—sixth grade,” said Nora. “I’m in the first and second grade classrooms.”

“What—does anyone know what happened to her?”

“That’s the weird thing,” said Nora. “I guess she drowned.”

“In a pool?”

“No, she was just lying on the ground, but her lungs were full of water. Everything around her was soaked.”

“But it didn’t rain yesterday,” Sarah countered, remembering her conversation with Danny. “The sun was out.”

“Yeah, like I said, weird.” Nora shrugged off the whole thing as one of those inexplicable tragedies that happen to other people.

Sarah took a few bites of French toast without really tasting it. Then a couple of disparate pieces clicked together in her mind. Nora had said _upper school_ —not the terminology of public schools.

“Where are you teaching?” she asked.

“The Hilda Marshall School,” Nora responded. “It’s an independent K-8.”

Sarah knew that the Marshall was a fairly exclusive private elementary and middle school; about three-quarters of its student body consisted of Oneida faculty children. Victoria Hammersmith’s two kids went there, the twins, who must be in the sixth grade by now. Sarah suddenly knew, she just _knew_ , that the dead woman had been Ivanka and Sacha’s teacher.

(viii)

Later that day, Sarah’s guess was confirmed when Victoria sent a mass e-mail to her student advisees, canceling appointments. _My kids’ school is closed for the day_ , she’d written. _There was an accident involving their teacher. If you need to reschedule, please drop me a line or call me_.

“Accident, my ass,” Sarah scoffed under her breath. She finished sorting through her messages, then composed a quick, distracted note to her father. _Say hi to Irene_ , she finished. _Hug Toby for me_.

With that task finished, she sat back in the chair, staring at the screen of the Macintosh LC. Making sure nobody else was around—she liked this particular computer cluster in an out-of-the-way corner of DeCiccio Hall’s basement—she slipped the tiny music player out of her book bag and compared it to the larger computer. Within the next decade, some brainy geek at Apple Computers would create this extraordinary little device. Sarah felt the guilty weight of her knowledge. Somewhere around the year 2000, she joked, she ought to start buying stock in Apple. It didn’t take an oracle to predict that this nifty gadget would sell by the millions once it hit the market. It made Sarah’s Discman seem like an eight-track tape player by comparison. The very feel of its cool, smooth surfaces was a sensual delight.

Even more uneasy-making, though, was the sense she had of how popular music would evolve over the next ten years. At night, in the privacy of her room, Sarah had been making her way through the playlists, thrilled to see how the work of various artists would progress. Many of these songs had yet to be written, the recordings themselves wouldn’t see the light of day for years, and yet Sarah held all this purloined creative output in the literal palm of her hand. To possess so much foreknowledge was nothing short of mind-blowing, but Sarah dared not share any of it with anyone. There was nobody, she realized, in whom she could confide. She just didn’t trust anyone enough—not Raelin, not her father, nobody. If Toby had been older, she might have been able to share this with him, but he was barely seven.

More than anything, Sarah feared what might happen to the progress of history—even pop culture history—if this glimpse of the future became widely known. With a sigh, she tucked the music player into her book bag, popped her floppy disk out of the Macintosh, and hurried out of the computer cluster. She still was reluctant to use her car, especially when she knew she’d be driving back to Riley after dark. She took a quick glance at her watch, breaking into a sprint: if she really hustled, she could make the next shuttle bus to the residential campus.

(ix)

Even from a distance, Sarah could see Raelin jumping up and down, see the ecstatic smile on her face. On this beautiful, sunny October day, Sarah had opted to walk back to Riley rather than wait for the bus, and as she rounded the front of the dorm, she spotted her friend in the Riley parking lot, standing with another student.

“Sarah! Sarah! Sarah!” Raelin shrieked. She raced down the steps from the parking lot, across the road, and over the dorm’s green front lawn. “Ohmigod! I found it! I found it!”

Sarah couldn’t stop laughing. The gorgeous day had put her in a good mood, despite all her recent fears and misgivings, and Raelin’s comical display added to that sense of blessed normalcy.

“Hey!” she said, greeting her friend on the front step. “Wanna blow off classes after lunch and go hike the gorges? The trees are incredible.”

“Works for me!” Raelin was swinging an enormous brown shopping bag. “First, I _have_ to show you this—come on upstairs so no one else will see it.”

“See what?” asked Sarah as they trooped inside.

“Your Halloween costume! You know Jill, right? Well, she was going downtown, so I hitched a lift with her, and while she was getting her hair cut, I poked into that secondhand shop. The woman had some new stuff in, and ohmigod Sarah, this thing had your name on it— _literally_ had your name on it—I think it’ll fit, too, but the woman said to just bring it back if it doesn’t.” Raelin was gabbing at ninety miles a minute as they climbed the stairs to the third floor. “Ten bucks—can you believe it? I would’ve paid more, but I didn’t know how much you’d wanna spring, and she said ten bucks was fine.”

“For God’s sake, are you going to show me the thing or not?” Sarah laughed.

“Inside, inside!” Raelin unlocked the door to her room and ushered Sarah inside. Once the door was locked, she flipped on the overhead light and said, “Close your eyes.” Sarah complied. She heard a quiet rustle of fabric, smelled a musty scent, and then Raelin said “Okay, you can look now.”

Sarah opened her eyes and had all she could do not to scream.

Completely misreading her expression, Raelin said, “Awesome, or what? Isn’t this just gorgeous?” She smoothed the fabric with one hand. “It might need to be dry-cleaned, but I bet you can get the wrinkles out just hanging it in the shower… Sarah? You okay?”

“Uh… wow,” Sarah managed.

“Don’t you like it?” asked Raelin anxiously.

“It’s… it’s… unreal,” Sarah wheezed.

“Is it too eighties?” Raelin asked.

“It’s… uh, kind of timeless, actually. Did the woman say where she got it?”

“Someone dropped it off. She found it in the bag on her doorstep this morning. Here, look… isn’t this a hoot?”

Raelin held up a fistful of the silky fabric. Pinned to the inner shoulder of the dress was a scrap of paper that resembled old parchment. And written on the paper, in a flowing archaic script, was one word.

 _SARAH_.

“Too funny, huh?” Raelin laughed.

“Yeah… I guess it’s meant to be.” Sarah forced a smile. Funny to think that she’d never seen his handwriting before (he knew how to write?), but even so, she recognized it. _Like his voice_ , she thought—even if she heard it in a crowd of millions, she’d recognize that mannered, seductive tenor.

The dress was exactly as Sarah remembered: the fitted bodice, woven with gold threads; the sleeves long and fitted, but puffed extravagantly from shoulder to elbow; the skirt floor-length and very full. Trim of braided gold emphasized the V of the waist. Wasn’t this every girl’s fantasy ball gown, an unbearably romantic concoction, in which all her dreams would come true? Sarah didn’t need to try it on to know that it would fit like an eighteen button glove.

“So?” asked Raelin, eyes shining. “Won’t Danny flip?”

He probably would. But Sarah wasn’t thinking of Danny now. She had another face in her mind: beautiful, otherworldly, cruel. Irresistible.

“Yeah,” she said, thinking ahead to the Halloween dance. That was when he’d appear—on that night of mystery and magic. Sarah knew she could refuse, knew she could bring the dress back to the shop, stay locked in her tower the night of the party. Or she could confront destiny, seize it in her hands. Was it even worth fighting anymore? she wondered. Wouldn’t she be better off just keeping her dignity?

“So, you like…?” Raelin asked, worried by Sarah’s response.

“Yeah… it’s gorgeous. Thanks.”

“Try it on,” Raelin demanded, nipping out into the hallway.

Resigned, Sarah disrobed and slipped into the gown, calling Raelin into the room to hook up the back.

“Wow.” Raelin stared at the full effect. “Wow—Sarah—you’re a heartbreaker. Look.”

Sarah turned reluctantly toward Raelin’s newly acquired full-length mirror. The fabric of the dress rustled as she moved. She barely recognized this vision of fairy-tale loveliness: tall, willowy, skin as pale as the dress itself. The fabric seemed to have been spun from the milk of crushed pearls, shimmering even beneath the fluorescent lights overhead. Sarah stepped closer to the mirror, eyeing the woman who stared back at her. Her hair—dark brown, almost black—fell in waves about her shoulders, framing a face exquisite in its symmetry. Her lips were full and red, even without lipstick. Beneath the thick eyebrows, her green eyes glittered like emeralds, fringed with long, extravagant lashes.

“Every guy in the dorm is gonna be proposing,” Raelin joked. “Send the rejects my way, would you?” She touched the bodice lightly. “You have a goddess bra you can wear under this baby? You’re stacked anyway, and the neckline’ll give you killer cleavage.”

“Yeah,” Sarah responded. She had some nice lingerie she’d picked up in Paris, on her way home, that she had yet to wear. Waiting, she suspected, for the right occasion.

“Shoes?”

“I misplaced my glass slippers,” Sarah laughed, half to herself.

“No, I meant the shoes are in here.” Raelin fished into the bag and held up a pair of elegant white pumps. They’d been crafted from the same fabric as the dress: silk, glittering with tiny crystals. Sarah looked them over. No size, no manufacturer’s name or label, and the soles showed only the tiniest hint of wear. Sarah slipped her feet into them: they might have been hand-crafted especially for her.

While Sarah tried the shoes, Raelin rummaged around the bottom of the bag. “There’s some accessories, too,” she said. “Necklace, earrings, and some weird doohickey… a headpiece, maybe?” She waved a pair of hair combs that trailed streamers of white silk.

“Yeah,” Sarah told her, not needing to look. “It goes in your hair.”

“Wow,” Raelin said, looking pleased with herself. “Is this destiny, or what? Sarah—if you don’t wear this rig, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Can’t have that, can we?” Sarah responded. “Thanks, Raelin—you’re a peach.” _Hopefully not the poisoned, hallucinogenic variety_.

“Awesome!” Raelin looked as excited as the fairy godmother dressing Cinderella. “Now, c’mon, get changed, and we can take that walk you were talking about.”

(x)

The police cruiser went whipping past, lights flashing. No sirens. Standing with a group of students from her German lit class, Sarah wondered out loud, “What the hell’s going on?”

“There’s another one,” a boy said, and a second cruiser followed the first. “They’re heading for Garrett Hall, I think.”

The students drifted across the quadrangle toward Garrett Hall. A small crowd of onlookers had gathered, standing about, staring up at the tall, gray building. Sarah had often admired Garrett’s architecture, classic Second Empire; it was one of Oneida’s surviving original buildings, now home to the university’s graduate programs in the humanities. Daylight reflected in the tall, elegant windows.

“No smoke,” Sarah remarked. Fire was always her first worry. “I don’t hear any alarms, either.”

“I don’t think it’s a fire.” A young woman standing nearby spoke. Her arms were folded across her chest, her face creased in a dark frown. She appeared too old to be an undergraduate—a grad student, maybe? Sarah put her age at about twenty-five.

“What’s going on?” Sarah kept her voice low, conspiratorial.

The young woman glanced about, eyes flicking from side to side. “Don’t say anything,” she muttered. “Officially, I’m not supposed to know anything about this, but I have a feeling it’ll be all over campus by tonight.”

“Why?”

The young woman lifted her chin, eyes narrow and hard with angry satisfaction. “Serves him right, the arrogant dickwad. Look.”

Two cops had emerged from Garrett Hall, escorting between them a tall, pale, good-looking man of about forty-five. His hands were cuffed in front of him.

Sarah recognized him at once. It was Yakov Vasiliev, Victoria Hammersmith’s estranged husband.

“Yasha!” she breathed.

Behind the trio came a young blonde woman, crying and upset. She looked like a _Playboy_ model, an unlikely combination of bony, voluptuous, and suntanned.

“Homewrecker,” Sarah’s companion growled.

“Oh, my God,” Sarah whispered. “Why are they arresting him?” So the blonde must be Yakov’s graduate student, the one he was having an affair with.

The gossipy young woman waited until Yakov was in the cruiser before she said, “The twins vanished last night.”

Sarah felt a cold chill in the pit of her stomach. “And they think Yakov’s behind it?”

“Apparently—and please don’t tell anyone this—Victoria Hammersmith thinks he kidnapped the twins and sent them back to his parents in St. Petersburg.”

“Jesus,” Sarah responded. She didn’t feel especially sorry for Yakov, but she recognized that he was in a horrible situation. He might be just as worried as Victoria about the kids, and if Sarah’s suspicions were correct, the charges against him were unfounded—but that could never be proved.

Feigning morbid interest in the case, Sarah asked, “Were they with him when they vanished? You know, on a visitation or something?”

“No, that’s one thing in his favor. It’ll depend on what kind of alibi he has—if the only person who saw him last night was Chesty Le Tits over there, he’s out of luck. The kids were with Victoria.”

“How d’you know all this?” asked Sarah, keeping her voice down and hoping the grad student wouldn’t recognize her as one of Victoria’s advisees.

“Department secretary,” the young woman responded. Sarah could believe that; in her experience, department secretaries knew _everything_.

“Are you in Slavic Languages?” asked Sarah. She kept her tone sympathetic, hoping to glean some more information.

“ABD,” the woman responded. All but dissertation. So she was a Ph.D. student. “I passed my quals this summer.” She scowled. “No thanks to that goddamned crapweasel, either—I had to switch advisors after Chesty came on the scene. She’s the very definition of ‘dumb blonde’—sorry for the sexist stereotype, but in her case, it’s God’s honest truth. I saw her application—thin as a shred of carbon paper, and she never would’ve made the cut, except that Yasha interviewed her, and once she’d wagged her boobs in his face, she was in.”

Sarah could believe that, too: admission to a lot of graduate programs depended on the sponsorship or vetting of a faculty member, and Yasha was a full professor with a lot of clout. That kind of favoritism must rankle the students who’d won their admissions more honestly.

Now that the grad student had vented her frustration, Sarah gently steered the conversation back to the events that interested her. “So, the kids were at Victoria’s house? Were they out in the driveway or the yard or something, where he could’ve grabbed them?”

“No, they were in the den, doing homework, according to Victoria. She was cleaning up after supper and went in to see how they were doing, and the sliding doors to the patio were open. No sign of the kids. No sign of footprints or tire tracks, either, even though the ground was wet. Anyway, the open doors might’ve been a red herring.”

“Really?” asked Sarah. She didn’t mention that there had been no rain the night before.

“Have you ever met the kids?”

“No,” Sarah lied.

“They’re kind of obnoxious, and I guess Victoria’s been having a hard time with them lately. She thinks they might’ve asked Yasha to stage a kidnapping, so they could go back and live in Russia with his parents.”

“So, they might’ve slipped out of the house but left the patio doors open to throw off the police, make it look like a random kidnapping?” Sarah guessed.

“Something like that,” the grad student nodded.

“In that case, Yasha would’ve been stupid not to establish some kind of alibi,” Sarah reasoned out loud.

“Yeah, well, what guy’s gonna think straight when he’s boinking a hot babe?” the grad student snarked.

Sarah kept her skepticism to herself. Hot girlfriend or no hot girlfriend, she didn’t think Yakov would be so careless.

The crowd was dispersing, so Sarah murmured, “Well, I hope the kids are okay.”

“Yeah, for Victoria’s sake, I hope so, too.”

Sarah nodded and murmured something noncommittal before slipping away. She was late for her next class, and she hurried across the quadrangle, glaring up at the cloudy sky.

(xi)

Night had fallen. Sarah couldn’t sleep or concentrate on homework. Before returning to the dorm, she’d checked her email, finding a message from the Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences. Effective immediately, Professor Victoria Hammersmith was on “family leave.” Other instructors would be taking over her courses, and other arts faculty would take charge of her advisees. Sarah had received a separate email from another art history professor about setting up meeting times.

The Oneida gossip mill had kicked into full gear, and over dinner, students had been buzzing with excitement and speculation about what might have happened to the twins. Until now, Sarah had not appreciated the extent to which Yakov was considered a campus philanderer, and the students found it easy to believe he would kidnap his own children and spirit them out of the country. Maybe it was a less distressing thing to believe than the twins’ disappearance being the work of some random pedophile.

Sarah had ignored as much of the gossip as she could, retreating to her room after dinner, pacing. Sacha and Ivanka were hardly her two favorite people, but she didn’t want to see anything horrible befall them, either. She pondered her moral responsibilities: did knowing about that other world oblige her to defend people from the mischief caused by its denizens? _What am I now, some kind of fairy-land cop?_

She also couldn’t ignore the possibility that the abduction of the twins was only part of an elaborate trap designed to ensnare Sarah herself.

Could she turn her back on all this? And if other children disappeared? What then? How many more had to vanish before Sarah would act?

Near midnight, her conscience finally got the better of her. Sarah changed into her comfortable hiking shoes, buttoned a flannel shirt over her t-shirt, and donned a warm coat, hat, and gloves. Before leaving the dorm, she used the bathroom and made sure her room was locked. God only knew how long she’d be gone.

Overhead, the full moon floated, wispy clouds drifting across its face. Sarah hiked out to the gorge, climbing down over the rocks; she wanted the rushing water to cover the sound of her voice.

Clutching the scrap of parchment with her name on it, she called out, “Goblin King, Goblin King, wherever you may be, I demand that you appear at once before me!” Maybe not the most inspired invocation, but she was hardly in the mood for rhyming couplets and iambic pentameter.

Nothing happened. Sarah ground her teeth, trying to remember exactly what she had said the last time. The words had been so simple…

 _I wish the goblins **would** come and take you away… right now_.

“I wish the Goblin King _would_ appear before me… right now.”

After a moment of nothingness, a shadow detached itself from the trees and circled down toward Sarah. _The owl_. Her stomach clenched with anticipation.

The bird swooped around, gliding on its outstretched wings, then hovered dramatically in mid-air. Sarah felt the breeze it stirred on her face. She didn’t blink, but still she missed the exact moment of transformation. One instant, there was an owl; the next, the bird was gone and a man stood not four feet from Sarah, balanced on the rocky outcropping, backlit by the yellow moonlight. The Goblin King, in all his magnificence, long cloak and long, pale hair fluttering out behind him in the night wind.

“Sarah.” Jareth’s voice and expression were unexpectedly aggrieved. “You took your bloody time.”

**To be continued…**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy early Christmas/ belated Yuletide! With luck, the next installment(s) will be posted the night on December 26.

Title: **Semi-Charmed Life**

Author: E.A. Week

E-mail: e.a.week at gmail dot com

Summary: Six years after her adventures in the Labyrinth, Sarah is now a senior in college. When two local children disappear under mysterious circumstances, she immediately suspects Jareth’s hand. But as ever, nothing is what it seems.

Category: _Labyrinth._

Distribution: Feel free to rec or link to this story, but **please** drop me at least a brief e-mail and let me know you've done this.

Feedback: Letters of comment are always welcome! Loved it? Hated it? Leave a review, send me a PM or an email and let me know why!

Disclaimer: Copyrights to all characters in this story belong to their respective creators, production companies, and studios. I’m just borrowing them, honest!

Credit where credit is due: The story title is stolen from Third Eye Blind. Part II title is stolen from the Gin Blossoms.

Story rating: This story is rated M (mature/ explicit) for language, sexuality, and adult themes.

Part II

_Follow You Down_

“What the hell do you want from me?”

With an absurdly hurt expression, Jareth put one gloved hand over his heart and said, “Really, Sarah. If you’d summoned me sooner, we might’ve prevented the children being taken.”

“‘We?’” Sarah snorted, not taking her eyes off his face. “You abducted those two kids! And if you’d wanted my attention so badly, you know where I live!” She flung her arm back in the direction of Riley. “Don’t give me that load of crap!”

With a long-suffering sigh, he said, “I can’t appear to anyone in this world unless they summon me.”

“So, who summoned you to grab the twins? Or did they wish themselves away?” Sarah could have believed that.

“They were taken by fairies,” Jareth said, as though that should be obvious to anyone with an ounce of common sense.

“Oh, please!” Sarah remembered the Labyrinth fairies, which had all the power of an irate greenfly.

“Not _my_ fairies,” Jareth said. “Look.”

He held out one of his infernal glass spheres. Sarah took a reluctant step forward to peer into it. At first she saw only a glowing light and a lovely winged creature—a classic fairy from children’s tales. But then its face contorted into gargoyle ugliness. Sarah recognized the shape of its wings, and in the air around her, she heard an unearthly music—the same sound she’d heard that night in the parking lot.

“I saw one of those,” she said. “There was a man following me—he died.” She tore her gaze from the crystal, glaring at Jareth. “You bastard!”

“Don’t be an imbecile,” Jareth scoffed. “You imagine I could be bothered with such a wastrel?”

“He died right after he saw me,” Sarah said through gritted teeth. “Why else would he have died?”

Jareth’s laugh rang throughout through the gorge, echoing off the stone walls. “Still the center of the universe, Sarah Williams?”

“Oh, piss off!” she snarled, turning to leave. “I don’t know why I bothered with you!”

“Because you care what happens to those children.” His voice was gentler now, chiding. “As you should. It’s in your power to save them, Sarah.”

Sarah turned back to him, despite herself. “So, why’d the fairies kill that old creep, then?”

Jareth showed her the man’s body, flower petals vomiting from his mouth; Sarah shuddered. “The fairies have chosen the twins as their own,” he said. “They weren’t far from you that night. The man had spotted the children earlier in the day and had malicious intent toward them. The fairies tracked him down and did away with him.”

“And the twins’ teacher?” asked Sarah.

The scene in the crystal shifted, now showing a middle-aged woman in a similar posture of death, her mouth also full of flower petals. “She’d been harsh with the children, and the fairies punished her for it. They’re murderously protective of children they mark as their own.”

“Shit,” Sarah whispered. “Where are these things from, and what do they want with the kids?”

“Aaah,” said Jareth. “At last she asks an intelligent question.”

“Don’t be so damned impressed with yourself.”

They stood glaring at each other.

“Fine,” Sarah shrugged. “You wanted to talk; I summoned you; now, you can’t give me a straight answer? Either you level with me, or you take a flying one. Ten seconds.”

“My, my, someone has grown up to have a mouth full of salt, hasn’t she?”

“Eight seconds.”

“Aranea,” Jareth relented. “They’re from a kingdom called Aranea.”

“Where’s that?”

Jareth tossed the crystal into the air, where it hovered between him and Sarah. As she watched, it took on a blue-green hue. “This is your world,” he said. Out of nowhere appeared another sphere, then another and another; he tossed them into the air, until there were eight all together, seven surrounding the first, like planets around a sun. “There are seven kingdoms beyond your world. You’ve been to the Underground. Aranea is one of the other six.”

“Does everyone from these worlds need to be summoned to enter this world?”

Jareth shrugged, “There’s rules binding the other-worlds—they have limited contact with yours. Aranea’s fairies were once a part of your world; they can travel between yours and theirs at will.”

“And they kidnap human children?”

“Think of it as adoption.” A tiny smile flicked up the corners of Jareth’s mouth. “Or a tribute. Your lot have driven them mostly to extinction, decimated their numbers. Taking one human child each generation prevents them from dying out completely.”

“Okay, taking children is something they do all the time.” Sarah folded her arms. “So, what’s special about the twins? Why the hell do _you_ care?” Sarah didn’t think Jareth would put forth this effort on Victoria’s behalf.

The spheres vanished. “Because this isn’t the fairies’ usual tribute. The twins were taken not for them, but for King Theridion and Queen Portia of Aranea.”

“I’m guessing this isn’t a good thing?”

“The twins have latent abilities,” Jareth said. “What you humans might think of as magical powers.” Funny how he made the word _human_ sound like something vaguely disgusting. “They carry the blood of the sorcerer Rasputin through their father and the blood of the Pendle witches through their mother. I’m sure you’ve sensed their power.”

His words jolted Sarah. Of course she’d noticed something about Victoria’s kids. She’d been denying it, trying to rationalize it away, but gut instinct, honed by her experience in the Labyrinth, had recognized the supernatural danger.

“What are they going to do with the twins?”

“Use them.” For a moment, Jareth appeared genuinely worried. “Theridion and Portia will drain their powers in order to grow stronger themselves.”

“So if those two get stronger, what happens then?” Sarah was digging for Jareth’s motivations; obviously, concern for the twins themselves would not be a factor.

“They become dangerously powerful,” Jareth said. “The restrictions that normally bind them to their own world would be weakened. They could wreak havoc in your world, Sarah.”

“And in yours?” she shot back. He looked insulted, and Sarah said, “Oh, come _on_ , Jareth; who are you kidding? You only look out for Number One.”

Disgruntled, he huffed, “Well, yes, they could become a nuisance in the other six kingdoms as well.”

With a brief expulsion of laughter, Sarah said, “What, you want me to help you stop them? A mere _human_?” She mimicked his condescending tone of voice.

“In point of fact, yes.”

She shook her head. “Round up the leaders of the other worlds, and get them to help you,” she said. “They must have more magical ability than yours truly. What the hell could I do that they can’t?”

“They won’t,” he said. Over the sound of the cascading water, Sarah could hear Jareth grinding his teeth. “Too cowardly, too self-interested.”

“Hey, there’s a first,” Sarah cracked.

He cocked his head to one side. “I liked you better when you weren’t so flippant.”

“And I’ve _never_ liked you,” she retorted. “Also, I grew up, so deal with it.” He glowered, and Sarah asked, “Seriously, what’s in this for me? I can’t exactly put ‘saving magical worlds’ on my vita.”

“Is saving your own world any less important?” he shot back. “Filthy and degenerate though it may be? I don’t think you appreciate the delicate balance among worlds, Sarah. There are very good reasons why the barriers are in place, why we can’t travel from one kingdom to another with impunity. And yet, the walls, in spots, have already been breached. Theridion and Portia have found a way to alter the fabric of time itself. Draining the twins could give them even more power. The worlds will begin to collapse into each other, and then into yours.”

“This thing,” Sarah realized out loud, pulling the tiny Apple music player from her coat pocket. On an impulse, she’d taken it with her, and now she waved it at Jareth. “The other day I woke up and found this…” She wondered if Jareth would even understand the concept of a computer. “This… machine that shouldn’t exist yet, not for another decade, lying right on my bed.”

Jareth regarded the device with an expression of distaste and suspicion. With a slight nod, he said, “It’s already started—even before they took the twins. They’re experimenting blindly.”

“So, why’d I end up with the little widget?” asked Sarah. “Billions of people on Earth, and I’m the one who woke up with it on my bed?”

“You’re a magnet,” said Jareth. “Because you’ve crossed to another world and back again, anomalies will always be attracted to you.”

_Tell me about it_ , Sarah thought. “How’d they interfere with time?” she asked. Had Theridion and Portia made a study of advanced physics? From her science courses, Sarah knew that time and space were fundamentally interconnected; it made sense to her that if supernatural beings were interfering with time, then it would impact space—the walls between worlds—as well.

“That’s a mystery,” Jareth scowled, and Sarah could see how it irked him to have this secret kept from him. “Something they’ll no doubt guard like a dragon with a cave full of gold. But they must be stopped.”

“So, why don’t you go stop them?”

Jareth laughed. “You think it’s so simple?” Another crystal appeared in the air. “The royal palace of Aranea lies at the center of four realms, each more dangerous than the last—the Gardens of Mirage, the Jeweled Caverns, the Forest of Spiders, and the Wasteland.” One by one, an image of those places appeared in the glass sphere; they must surround Aranea’s royal palace as the Labyrinth surrounded Jareth’s castle. “Nobody from outside Aranea has ever survived all four realms to reach the palace; even within the kingdom, movement among the realms is difficult.”

“You think _I_ could?” Sarah scoffed. “And you couldn’t?”

He didn’t answer, glaring at her, but Sarah could see him squirming.

Realization hit her at once, and Sarah broke into unkind snickers.

“What, you’re powerless outside your own little kingdom?” she taunted.

“Not completely,” he growled. “Limited.”

“So, what the hell could I do? I’d be less than powerless.”

“You solved the Labyrinth,” he snapped.

“And that makes me some kind of expert?”

“You’re more skilled than you realize,” he said. “Skilled and resourceful and clever.” His tone had grown warmer; he was turning on the flattery and charm. “Nobody had ever solved the Labyrinth before you.”

“Or challenged you,” Sarah returned. “Don’t forget that bit.”

He inclined his head slightly, a gesture not of defeat but of simple acknowledgement. Sarah remembered the exact moment when the tide of their duel had turned in her favor: when she’d made that suicidal leap to save Toby. She’d been willing to sacrifice herself to save her brother, and that had undone most of Jareth’s power, allowing Sarah to deliver the final coup de grâce. She wondered if that kind of unselfishness could be brought to bear against King Theridion and Queen Portia. Sarah knew nothing about them; for that knowledge, she would have to rely on Jareth, something she was loath to do.

Overhead, an airplane roared past, a small passenger shuttle on its way to the Hancock Airport in Syracuse. To Sarah’s shock, Jareth flinched and ducked, glaring up at the sky; he disliked human mechanical creations.

“I had help,” she said when the noise had faded. “I never could’ve gotten through the Labyrinth without my friends.” That was another weapon she’d had against Jareth: the very notion of friendship would be anathema to goblins.

“Well, yes,” he said coolly.

“I won’t do this without them,” Sarah heard herself saying.

Jareth glared, “Those cretins? Absolutely not!”

“No dice, then,” Sarah shrugged.

“Our progress will be faster if we travel light.”

She shook her head. “No way am I going through a garden of mirages or a forest of spiders or any kind of wasteland with only you to cover my back. I don’t trust you as far as I can spit. I want my friends with me. Real friends. Something I know you’ll never understand, because you’re a selfish, arrogant, vainglorious peacock.” Sarah enjoyed watching his expression change as one barb after another hit home. “You want my help, there’s my condition. It’s a package deal. Me and my friends, or nothing. Take your pick.”

“Confound you!” Jareth exploded. “Bring your friends! Are we agreed on that?”

“Sure,” Sarah smiled. “I’ll go with you to Aranea, but my friends come with us—Hoggle, Ludo, and Sir Didymus.” She felt it important to call them by name, in case Jareth could wiggle out via some magical loophole; the terms should be stated as clearly as possible. She held out a hand to him. “Deal?”

He didn’t look happy, but he took her hand nevertheless, his skin warm through the soft fabric of his glove. “Agreed.” Sarah felt a wind rushing around them, tasted magic in the air. And then the gorge was gone, the air around them filled with the soft, diffuse sunlight of the Underground. She and Jareth were standing on one of the castle’s high parapets, the whole of the Labyrinth spread in breathtaking majesty around them.

Sarah knew she ought to feel at least apprehensive, but all she could summon was excitement, a feeling of almost giddy pleasure. She felt strangely as though she’d come home.

(ii)

Without wasting any further time, Jareth escorted her down through the towers to a large chamber—his throne room, Sarah recalled. The same vulture nested over his throne. And assembled together, looking utterly baffled as to how they’d gotten there, were four familiar, beloved figures.

Unable to contain a shriek of pure happiness, Sarah threw herself first at Ludo, mostly because she could hug him without knocking him clear off his feet.

“Ludo!” she cried out, burying her face in his shaggy coat.

“Sawah!” he bellowed. The entire castle shook, and mortar sifted down the walls. “Sawah, fwiend!”

She let go of him and turned to the diminutive form of Sir Didymus.

“Sir Didymus! And Ambrosius!”

The fox took her offered hand and gave it a gallant kiss. “Lady Sarah!” he exclaimed. “Bravery and kindness itself! How delightful to see thee again!”

She couldn’t resist scratching Ambrosius, a replica of dear, departed Merlin. His tongue lolled, tail wagging happily.

“And Hoggle,” she smiled, turning at last to the dwarf, who turned bright pink beneath his little cap. “You haven’t changed… none of you have changed.”

He peered up at her. “Yeh’ve grown up, Missy.”

“I was fifteen then… I’m almost twenty-two, now. It’s been more than six years.” Something dawned on Sarah then as she took in her friends’ expressions. “Why… how long has it been here?”

“Not one solar sojourn, my lady,” Sir Didymus provided.

“Six, seven months,” Hoggle translated.

Sarah turned to find Jareth lounging in his throne, one long leg draped over an arm of the stone seat. “Seriously?” she asked.

“Hmm?” He was looking up at the ceiling, as if to distract himself from Sarah’s reunion with her friends.

“Does time move differently here?” she pressed.

“You’re slipping,” he smirked. “It’s taken you how long to work that out? And you thought you were so clever.”

Sarah made a face. She remembered feeling that she’d been in the Labyrinth for days, and yet she’d arrived home on the stroke of midnight, having been gone only a few hours. Now, it seemed that the reverse was true. Six months in the Labyrinth had been six years outside it.

She wouldn’t have expected Jareth to change, but still, he seemed untouched by time. The long, lithe body was exactly as she remembered it; the face haughty and beautiful. How well she remembered his mane of tawny hair, his weirdly mismatched eyes. He wore the same clothes, even: elegant and flamboyant, cut to emphasize his slim figure. Sunlight streaming through an arrow slit gleamed on the metal of his amulet. Sarah noticed something else: the heels on his black boots. He was no taller than her, she realized; he wore the boots to give himself the appearance of greater height—even though most of his subjects barely reached his knees. Sarah smiled to herself, amused by Jareth’s vanity.

“What brings yeh back here, Missy?” Hoggle inquired, beaming with pleasure.

“Two human children have been kidnapped,” she said, hoping Jareth hadn’t pulled a fast one on her. “They’re the children of my… my mentor. A woman who’s a good friend of mine. Jareth says they were taken by King Theridion and Queen Portia of Aranea. He’s going with me to help get them back.”

“Ha!” said Hoggle, giving Jareth a look of utter disbelief. Even Ludo and Sir Didymus gazed at the Goblin King with eyes full of doubt.

“No, it’s true,” said Sarah.

Sir Didymus asked, “Verily, Your Majesty?”

Jareth kept his eyes on the ceiling, but he made a non-committal noise that could be interpreted as an affirmative.

“What’s in it for him?” asked Hoggle, openly disrespectful.

“His continued existence,” Sarah provided, trying not to laugh. Sobering, she said, “The king and queen of Aranea are using their powers to interfere with space and time… the walls between the different kingdoms could collapse if they don’t stop. And they’re using the twins, who have special powers, to make themselves even stronger. Everyone in my world and yours could be in danger if they don’t stop.”

“And thou wishes us to accompany thee!” Sir Didymus cried out. “A noble and gallant quest!” He doffed his little hat and bowed deeply at Sarah. “My lady, the services of myself and my brave steed are at thy disposal.”

Sarah turned to Ludo and Hoggle. “How about it?” she said. “The old gang, together again? Will you come with us? Please?”

“Ludo, Sawah, fwiends,” Ludo said happily. “Ludo go Sawah.”

“Hoggle?”

The dwarf muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a curse under his breath. “Aranea. D’you know what yer getting into, Missy?”

She rolled her eyes in Jareth’s direction and said, “I think only one of us is the real expert on Aranea.”

Hoggle said, “It’s the most dangerous of all the Seven Kingdoms. Yeh think the Labyrinth was bad?” He snorted. “Nobody who went into Aranea ever came out alive, and that’s a fact, Missy.”

“The five of us can figure it out,” insisted Sarah. “I know we can.”

“It’s all right, Hogshead.” Jareth spoke in a lazy drawl, smiling up at the ceiling. “If you’re too cowardly to come along, I’m sure Sarah and I can manage just fine without you.”

Poor Hoggle went from pink to maroon. He glared back and forth between Jareth and Sarah nearly a dozen times, any number of emotions warring on his face. Sarah risked a quick look at his belt: he still carried the collection of baubles she remembered, including the plastic bracelet she’d given him. Feeling devious, she gave him her warmest, most winning smile.

“Please?” she said. “I can’t do this without you, Hoggle.”

“All right,” Hoggle finally relented. “But I’m doing this fer you, Missy—” Hoggle jabbed a finger in Jareth’s direction. “Not fer him.”

“You disappoint me, Hogwart.” Jareth swung his leg around and sat up straight. “Now that that’s settled—to the armory.”

“For weapons?” asked Sarah.

Jareth’s curved eyebrows went up even further. “You expect to get through a hostile kingdom without fighting?”

Sarah wondered what she’d gotten herself into. “Fine,” she sighed. “Looks like all that SCA training is going to pay off.”

(iii)

The armory occupied a vast chamber on one of the lower levels. A pair of goblins dueled with wooden staves in one corner, and they broke off, shrieking and pointing, when Jareth swept in. At a gesture from him, they scurried away.

He went straight to a tall cabinet, reaching inside for a slender, deadly-looking sword in a cunningly wrought leather scabbard. He buckled the belt about his slim waist; Sarah tried not to stare too obviously.

Sarah had never learned how to use a sword well, but she was a first-rate archer. “Any longbows?”

Jareth reached into the cabinet again, producing a long wooden bow. Sarah propped one end of the weapon against her foot and slid the string up to the other end. She tested the tension, pulling the string back to her cheek and bending the wood. The draw weight was almost perfect for her strength.

“Not bad,” she assessed, easing the string back to neutral. She realized Jareth was staring at her, eyes hungry. For a moment, her gaze met his. Sarah let another beat slide past before she politely asked, “Arrows?”

With a frustrated grunt, Jareth produced a quiver of feathered arrows. Sarah made sure they were the right length for her arms before fastening the quiver to her belt.

Jareth was arming himself with knives: a dagger in each boot, a longer blade in his belt, small throwing knives concealed up each ruffled sleeve.

“Here.” He handed her a dagger similar to his own.

“Are you expecting a war?” she inquired.

“The fairies guard the Gardens of Mirage,” he said. “It’s Aranea’s first line of defense. They’ll try to trick you into wasting your arrows on illusions.”

“So, what do we do?” asked Sarah.

“Look at the ground. If you see a shadow, the fairy is real.”

On another side of the room, Sir Didymus with helping to accouter Hoggle.

“I ain’t never been in a fight,” the dwarf grumbled. “I usually just runs.”

“Don’t be silly; you helped us fight our way through the Goblin City,” Sarah reminded him.

Hoggle didn’t appear convinced. Sarah saw that he’d tucked a short sword into his belt, and he carried a small but stout wooden staff in one hand. She had no clue if he could use either weapon. Sir Didymus wore a sword as well and carried a short wooden lance. Sarah remembered the speed and dexterity with which he could wield the weapon. Ludo, of course, needed no weapon other than his massive size.

Jareth had picked up a lightweight crossbow, which could be loaded from both the top and bottom, and he’d attached a quiver of short arrows to his belt.

“Well, then?” he said, looking over their party, regarding Hoggle with barely disguised scorn.

“I think we’re ready,” Sarah responded.

“The fairies will try to prevent us reaching the gate to the Jeweled Caverns,” said Jareth. “They’ll do everything in their power to confuse and separate us, and pick us off one by one.” Something in his expression suggested he wouldn’t actually mind if that happened.

“So, stay together,” Sarah concluded. She could tell Jareth hated words like “together,” and probably never used them. He had all he could do to get “us” out of his mouth without grimacing in disgust. She asked, “I assume it’s not called the Gardens of Mirage for nothing.”

“Obviously,” he said, still speaking in that arch voice. “It takes a very strong will not to be distracted.” His tone indicated he believed himself the only one capable of such supreme self-discipline.

“So where’s this gate, and what does it look like?”

Amused, Jareth said, “What do you think? It’s going to be disguised as an illusion.”

Mimicking his tone again, Sarah said, “Should I assume that His Magical Majesty can tell the difference between illusion and reality?”

He gave her another one of those looks of his—irritated, angry, impatient, but also seething with lust. Sarah wondered how long she could work that peculiar emotional stew to her advantage.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said.

Jareth made a gesture for the others to stand closer to him. Then he drew out a glass sphere, muttered something, and tossed the small globe up into the air. To Sarah’s amazement, the thing expanded outward, surrounding all of them, and then the armory faded away into a pale gray haze.

(iv)

The haze outside the sphere thickened. Sarah had a sense of moving very quickly, as if she were standing in some kind of rocket ship, although her body didn’t register any motion. The perception, she realized, was mental rather than physical. She peered out, trying to see through the swirling mist, but the gray clouds concealed everything.

The strange journey went on and on. Sir Didymus, mounted on Ambrosius, looked completely calm. Hoggle was sweating and fidgeting. Sarah ventured a quick look at Jareth; he affected indifference, but something about his eyes hinted at a greater concern than he was letting on.

And then the sense of movement stopped. Sarah blinked. An instant later, the mist and the sphere both vanished.

Sarah nearly gasped out loud. They stood in the middle of a garden of sumptuous, extravagant beauty, surpassing anything she could have imagined. All around them, graceful flowering trees swayed in a gentle breeze, releasing a fragrance so intoxicating that Sarah stood rapt for a few moments, inhaling the scent. Flowers also blossomed on shrubs and bushes, which grew in a charming configuration, as if they’d been planted to look completely natural. Nearby, a brook flowed, its banks lush with tall, emerald grasses and deep purple irises. The grass underfoot was thick and verdant, so soft that Sarah yearned to fling herself down and roll in it like a child. Flowers grew up among the grass, every conceivable variety and color, not in regimented beds, but in lovely, cloud-like drifts.

Overhead, a benign sun shone warmly in a cerulean sky. Birds sang the sweetest possible melodies, and brilliantly-colored butterflies danced their lazy way from flower to flower. There were no people and no buildings Sarah could see, only the occasional low stone wall.

Behind her, Hoggle let out a happy sigh and began drifting across the grass toward a rosebush. His feet didn’t seem to be touching the ground.

“Smells nice,” Ludo rumbled. He reached up to the nearest tree, pulled off a branch, and began munching on the fruit that grew there.

“Upon my honor, hast thou ever gazed upon such magnificence?” Sir Didymus wondered, and even Ambrosius woofed agreeably.

“Let’s look around,” said Sarah, dazed, her lurching footsteps carrying her of their own volition toward a shrub that resembled lilac, the flowers a deep orchid color, the scent like the distillation of joy itself.

“Not so quickly.” She felt a hand on her shoulder, jolting her back to reality. “Do you perceive the dangers of this place?”

As if Jareth’s touch had placed a filter on her senses, Sarah realized the deadly nature of this trap. The gardens baffled the senses with pleasure, sapping willpower and judgment and energy. No wonder nobody ever got beyond the outer realm of Aranea. Anyone who found themselves in the Gardens of Mirage would quickly descend into a drugged stupor.

“Ludo, Hoggle, Sir Didymus!” she shouted. “Come back here—stay with us!”

They all stared at her, eyes big and round, expressions bovine and vacant.

Sarah veered toward Hoggle, who was closest to her, and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Fight it!” she said. “This is a trap! It’s like a gigantic Venus fly trap!”

“Uggah?” he said, staring up at her through glazed eyes.

“Snap out of it!” Sarah hated resorting to physical violence, but it didn’t stop her from hauling back and slapping poor Hoggle straight across his whiskery cheek.

“Why—you—!” he sputtered, clutching his face.

“Wake up!” she ordered.

“It’s no good,” came the sound of Jareth’s drawl. “He’s as stupid as they come.”

This seemed to jolt Hoggle out of his trance; he growled, shaking his staff at Jareth.

“Good—that’s right!” encouraged Sarah. “Stay angry!” She broke into a run and vaulted toward Sir Didymus, who was following the irregular flight of a spectacular butterfly.

“Sir Didymus! Come back!”

“Follow the butterflies, my lady!” he called. “We must follow the butterflies!”

Sarah reached out and grabbed for the knight; she missed, but caught a fistful of the sheepdog’s fur instead. Ambrosius yelped, and Sir Didymus reacted immediately to protect the animal. “Hie, rapscallion, cease thy abuse of my noble steed!”

“I’ll kick that mutt if you don’t get back here!” Sarah threatened.

“How dare thou impugn the honor of such a magnificent beast!”

Sir Didymus attempted to impale Sarah on his lance; she grabbed the weapon and shouted, “Sir Didymus! Snap out of it!”

The fox blinked a few times. “Lady Sarah?”

“That’s right,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder and steering him back toward the others. “Everyone—keep your energy up. Adrenaline—that’s the answer. Stay angry, jump up and down, do whatever you need to do—concentrate on something—don’t let your mind wander.”

Jareth had corralled Ludo by simply pulling the fruit-laden branch from his big paw.

“I don’t like this,” Hoggle said, peering up at the sky.

“If we survive until the Forest of Spiders, you’ll like it even less,” Jareth told him.

“So, the gate,” Sarah said, hopping up and down slightly to keep her blood moving. The faster they got out of this cloying honey-pot, the better. “How are we going to find it?”

Jareth had slipped off his amulet, and now he held it up so that the sunlight fell onto the metal. Perplexed, Sarah watched as the pendant turned slowly, as if orienting itself toward some magnetic force, until it faced in the direction of a glade of trees.

“That way,” he said, slipping the amulet back over his head.

“All right!” Sarah felt like a cheerleader at a pep rally. “Let’s get moving.”

(v)

Their progress was maddeningly slow. Jareth took the lead, following the signal detected by his amulet; the seductive enchantments of the garden didn’t affect him—at least not that he showed. Sarah had all she could do to keep her concentration, not to let her vigilance relax. Ludo fared the worst; he was so simple-minded that any kind of serious concentration was beyond him. But that worked to the advantage of Hoggle and Sir Didymus, who focused their attention on keeping the shaggy beast moving forward.

The distractions were never-ending. At one point, Sarah caught sight of an exquisite, jewel-like hummingbird, and in her effort to follow its flight, she didn’t realize that the others were moving further and further ahead of her.

“Whatcher doing, Missy?” Hoggle’s voice called back to her.

Jolted to reality again, Sarah tore her gaze from the bird and stumbled forward, trying to catch up to her friends. Keeping her eyes on the ground to watch her footing, Sarah became mesmerized by the loveliest pink Lady’s Slipper, growing in a patch of moss as soft as velvet. She wrenched her gaze upward, concentrating on Ludo’s broad back. In doing so, she nearly fell into a small stream, and then she was standing, swaying back and forth, enchanted by the musical sound of the water as it murmured and bubbled its way among the glittering chunks of feldspar…

“Missy?”

Grinding her teeth, furious at herself, Sarah leaped over the stream and sprinted toward her friends.

“This place is like a drug,” she gasped.

Hoggle was twitching, but otherwise seemed to be holding up, perhaps using his extreme dislike of Jareth to stay focused.

“My word, hast there ever been a place of such loveliness?” Sir Didymus inquired dreamily.

“That’s the problem: it’s _too_ lovely,” Sarah responded. “In my world, even the most beautiful places have a little bit of ordinariness or even ugliness to make them real. This is too perfect. It’s like… like food that’s too sweet or a swimming pool that’s too warm. It’s imperfections that make things real and worthwhile.”

“Today’s lesson in philosophy is brought to us by Miss Williams,” Jareth smirked.

“Not bad for a _human_ ,” answered Sarah. Her gaze settled on Jareth, the way the rays of sunlight set his hair gleaming, the set of his slim shoulders, the way his long, black cloak fell so dramatically down to his boots—

A hard poke in her thigh snapped her out of the swoon.

“Hey!” she shouted. Hoggle had jabbed her with his quarterstaff.

“It ain’t just the birds and flowers, Missy,” he growled.

Ruefully, Sarah muttered, “Thanks.”

(vi)

It seemed like they would never stop walking. Sarah lost all track of time as they moved from pine and cedar forests to tapestry meadows to sylvan glades to gardens bursting with scent and color to fecund orchards, the trees laden with pungent blossoms and glistening fruit. Everywhere, the sun shone warm and soft, the breeze blew a gentle caress, and the smell of everything tantalized the nose with each breath. Sarah didn’t know how Jareth kept his focus. Every so often, he’d slip off the amulet and make sure they were still moving in the right direction, but otherwise he kept his thoughts to himself.

Almost without Sarah realizing it, a thin skin of clouds had begun to move across the sky, blotting out the sun by gradual degrees.

“Damn,” Jareth swore.

“What’s wrong?” Sarah trotted forward to stand beside him.

He stood gazing about. “They know we’re here.” Pointing up at the sky, he said, “No sunlight.”

“Will your amulet still work?”

“The signal is muted,” he muttered. “But we’re getting closer.”

And then, not long after, they came upon a sunken garden, filled not with flowers and trees and bushes, but with topiary sculpted into the shapes of fantastic and menacing creatures. The vast garden, stretching as far as the eye could see, was as maze-like as any part of the Labyrinth. By now, the clouds had grown ever thicker, and Sarah tasted rain in the wind.

“This is it,” Jareth announced, keeping his voice low. “The gate. It’s somewhere in this garden.”

(vii)

They descended a flight of stone steps into the topiary maze. Instead of grass underfoot, there were paths of crushed gravel. Sarah realized the garden was deeper than she’d first thought, the smooth stone walls rising up two or three feet overhead. The hedges also were taller than she’d realized. Unlike the rest of the Gardens, this place seemed like it had been designed deliberately by the hands of intelligent beings.

Sarah followed along behind Jareth, hoping he knew where he was going and also hoping he wasn’t up to one of his usual tricks. She felt the first drop of rain on her face. Perhaps because of the maze’s cold formality, it didn’t seem as thoroughly seductive as the rest of the Gardens. Sarah’s head felt more clear, and the others followed behind her, keeping quiet. The only sounds she heard were the crunch of footsteps and the soft panting of Ambrosius.

The random drops of rain increased to a light sprinkle. Jareth went left, then right, then around an enormous shrub clipped to resemble a fearsome bird of prey. Without breaking stride, he reached into the quiver on his belt, withdrew a pair of arrows, and slapped them into the stock of his crossbow.

“We’re going to have company,” he said, and Sarah swiftly strung her longbow, putting an arrow to the string.

“How can you tell?” she asked.

“The rain,” he said. Sarah remembered that the fairies’ victims had been found on soaking wet ground, and that the yard around Victoria’s house had been wet as well when the twins had vanished.

“There’s no sun,” Sarah said. “How will we be able to tell which fairies are real?”

Grimly, Jareth said, “We won’t.”

Sarah glanced up and around, growing more apprehensive. They were so deep in the center of the endless sunken garden that she could no longer see any of the surrounding walls. She could not have found her way back to the stairs if her life had depended on it. They were trapped, and now the light rain had become a downpour.

The attack came out of nowhere, sudden and vicious. A fairy knocked Sarah clear off her feet. She landed painfully on the gravel path, losing her grip on the bow. The creature drew back its scrawny, withered arm as if to punch her in the mouth or throat; Sarah jabbed upward blindly with the arrow, impaling the fairy clear through its chest. It let out a horrific high-pitched squeal as it died. Sarah pushed away the body and leapt up to her feet, grabbing her longbow.

The things were numerous in the air, flying about like a plague of locusts, undeterred by the pouring rain. Sarah put another arrow to her bow and fired blindly, sending another one of the creatures into the wet gravel. Nearby, Jareth was firing bolt after bolt with expert aim, but as fast as he shot the fairies out of the sky, more appeared.

Ludo swung his massive arms, knocking fairies down onto the paths; they tried landing on his back and getting a stranglehold, but he flung them off. Sir Didymus was a blur of motion, his lance swinging and jabbing, and much to Sarah’s delight, Hoggle proved himself more than adequate with a quarterstaff, cracking fairies on their skulls and sending them into the ever-deepening water.

Sarah realized to her horror that the sunken garden was like an enormous pool, and if it filled up even part way, the water would be six feet deep or more. Already the water was up to Hoggle’s knees, and Ambrosius was practically dog-paddling as he bore Sir Didymus about.

“Jareth, we don’t have all day!” Sarah yelled. Her supply of arrows was almost exhausted, and those that remained weren’t flying straight due to the wet feathers. Jareth had abandoned archery and was using his sword instead; the fairies avoided the long sweeps of the swinging blade.

As one, the vile creatures flew up, almost into formation, and zoomed away, as if obeying some command only they could hear.

“What the hell?” Sarah didn’t know whether to be afraid or relieved; the rain hadn’t stopped; Hoggle had climbed up onto Ludo’s back, his face rigid with fear. _Shit_ , Sarah thought. _He can’t swim_.

The next instant, each one of the topiary sculptures began gushing water from its top, like millions of fountains. Sarah realized the reason they looked artificial was because they _were_ artificial, as unnatural as fake Christmas trees, with some kind of pipes running up their centers. The water level began to rise with precipitous speed.

Jareth was sloshing through the churning waves, grabbing the floating bodies of fairies, examining each one and casting it aside.

“What are you looking for?” Sarah screamed.

“A live one!”

“Why the hell didn’t you say so?” She waded frantically among the topiary, poking the fairy-corpses. God, the things were so damned ugly; how had they ever gotten such good press on Earth? _When I get home, I’m going to write a paper debunking every fairy myth in human history_ , Sarah thought.

“Here, Your Majesty!” Sir Didymus shouted, poking a body with his lance. “This one still lives!”

Jareth waded over and grabbed the creature by the back of its neck. Sarah saw that its wings had been broken, its hideous face contorted with pain; it had been trying to swim away. Jareth removed the amulet from around his neck and shoved it into the repulsive, needle-toothed mouth.

The fairy lit up as if Jareth had stuck a light bulb inside it. He turned the creature, and a long, straight yellow beam projected from its mouth about fifty feet across the maze.

“That way!”

The party slogged in the direction that the beam indicated, Jareth holding the fairy in front of him like a weird lantern. He’d said _gate_ , and Sarah had been expecting an upright archway of some sort, so when Ludo suddenly vanished beneath the surface, taking Hoggle with him, she shrieked with alarm.

Jareth turned the fairy toward where the spot where Ludo had dropped out of sight, and a golden halo appeared on the water, as if someone were shining a spotlight into the pool.

“Down you go!” he shouted.

“Down _there_?” Sarah retorted.

“Stay here and drown, if you’d rather!”

The water was chest-deep now and rising. Shooting Jareth a murderous expression, Sarah took a deep breath, bent her knees, pushed off with her feet, and dolphin-dived right down into the center of the gold ring.

She expected to hit the gravel bottom; instead, it was like she’d been sucked into a vacuum tube, falling like Alice into a pitch black rabbit hole. Screaming, Sarah fell and fell and fell and fell, and then, without warning, she landed on something wet and warm and furry. It broke her fall, but the impact still knocked the wind out of her.

“Ludo!” she wheezed.

“Sawah, fwiend!”

“Out of the way, Missy! The flying fox’ll be next!”

Sarah followed the direction of Hoggle’s voice, flailing blindly, and then his tough hand grabbed hers, and she scrabbled onto what felt like a pile of stones.

From high above came an unlikely duet: the sound of a triumphant “Yaaaaaah!” coupled with a loud, canine “Arooooo!” A moment later, Ambrosius and Sir Didymus landed on top of poor Ludo.

“What an extraordinary way to travel!” the fox exclaimed, undaunted as ever.

“Are you all right? Is Ambrosius all right?” asked Sarah.

A moment later, she heard a snuffle, and then Ambrosius stuck his wet nose in her face. Sarah laughed and laughed, relieved that her friends were all right.

She heard a soft, light whooshing noise, like the whisper of a velvet gown along a ballroom floor, and then a barely perceptible sound of impact.

A moment later came blessed illumination. Jareth had tossed one of his globes into the air, where it hovered, casting spectacular light in all directions.

Sarah’s mind reeled. They’d landed deep in an underground cavern. And all around them—in the walls, ceiling, and floor—glittered gemstones. Hundreds, thousands, perhaps millions of precious jewels, were embedded in the black rock.

“The Jeweled Caverns.” Jareth stood atop a magnificent ruby, bathed in its deep red glow. He must have landed there, balancing with cat-like ease. Sarah saw to her disgruntlement that he was also completely dry, despite the soaking rains and immersion in the waters of the fairies’ pool-trap. The amulet once again hung about his neck, though he’d misplaced the crossbow. Sarah realized she’d lost both longbow and quiver.

“So, what’s the danger here?” she asked, trying to ignore how wet and uncomfortable she felt.

“Just one,” smiled Jareth. “Temptation. If you help yourself to even a single stone, no matter how small, you’ll be buried in an avalanche.”

Sarah exhaled a long sigh. She glanced around at her friends, whose eyes all showed signs of being dazzled by the brilliant, multi-hued treasures around them.

“Hear that?” she asked them. “Hands to yourselves, if you want to get out of here alive.”

The others murmured their assent, but Sarah could see the beginnings of an aching lust for riches in the eyes of both Hoggle and Sir Didymus. Even Ludo appeared mesmerized, not by the value of the stones, but by their entrancing beauty.

These caverns, then, represented another type of honey-trap. The Gardens of Mirage seduced one into a torpor with their boundless pleasure. The Jeweled Caverns beckoned with the promise of limitless fortune. Sarah gnashed her teeth.

“Out of the frying pan, into the fire,” she muttered.

Jareth hopped down from the ruby, dropping six feet and landing without a noise.

“Onward?” he said, offering a sardonic smile at the others’ bedraggled appearance.

“After you, fearless leader,” Sarah smirked.

With a lift of his eyebrows, Jareth whirled on his foot and strode deeper into the caverns, the glowing sphere following overhead behind him. Sarah motioned to her friends, and they made their way across the gleaming piles of gemstones.

(viii)

Like the Gardens of Mirage, the Caverns stretched endlessly in all directions. Tunnels led to other tunnels, with branches at every junction. Sometimes the tunnels would open into a wide cavern with dozens of exits. Jareth strode along in front, choosing their path through this maze without hesitation. Once in a while, his hand would reach up to touch the amulet. Perhaps it served as a kind of homing beacon for him, a way to detect magical energy.

Sarah thought about Jareth’s earlier claim that his powers would be limited outside the Underground. So far she had observed that he could still use the crystals, draw on his amulet for power, fall great distances without injury, and dry himself instantaneously. Sarah realized the one thing he couldn’t do here was manipulate the environment. He could survive in it; he couldn’t change it.

After the warm, sunny Gardens, the Caverns felt cold, though Sarah suspected her wet clothes exacerbated this perception. Sir Didymus had shaken himself thoroughly, his russet pelt already drying. Ambrosius smelled like any wet dog, but he seemed none the worse for wear. Ludo’s pelt was drying nicely. Only Hoggle seemed as miserable as Sarah; he didn’t say as much, but they exchanged a few rueful glances.

In a way, Sarah was glad for the distraction of physical discomfort: it kept her alert, kept her senses on edge. The Jeweled Caverns took her breath: it wasn’t the sheer abundance of precious stones; it was their colors—deep, saturated, glowing. Each stone was beautiful in its own way, utterly desirable. Sarah thought she would grow numb after looking at so many of them, but around every corner, there would be another stone that stunned her anew.

There were crimson rubies—the reddest red Sarah could imagine: pulsing and luscious. The sapphires were blue beyond compare—the blue of sky, of ocean. The amethysts glowed a regal purple; chunks of topaz flashed a rich, gleaming bronze. The white light of the diamonds dazzled the eyes, piercing the gloom. Sarah spotted white opals, black opals, fire opals. There were clusters of semi-precious stones as well, no less appealing. But nothing could compare to the emeralds, such a pure, intense green that they seemed to exert an actual, physical power.

Everywhere, at every step, was the temptation to pick something up. Not the larger stones—those would be too large to carry, too cumbersome. The smaller stones, those that could be stashed in a pocket, were far more tantalizing. Sarah’s hands itched to touch them. Every few moments, she found herself beginning to reach out, and she would have to stop herself, wrestle the rebellious muscles into submission. Her hands seem to have developed a mind of their own, and she kept her arms glued to her sides by sheer force of will.

Harder to subdue were the fantasies Sarah kept concocting in her mind. She saw herself in glamorous formalwear, necklaces of gemstones flashing against her pale throat. She could envision them dripping from her ears, her wrists, gleaming on her fingers. She saw herself in a gown of plum-colored silk, a coronet of amethysts and diamonds encircling her brow. And then, in the vision, Jareth was beside her, smiling and taking her hand, his gaze rapt with passion.

_Stop it!_ Sarah scolded herself, glaring at the back of Jareth’s head, grateful he could not read her mind—at least she hoped he couldn’t. The siren song of the jewels was their illusory power to make all things possible. Sarah turned to observe Hoggle and Sir Didymus, wondering what fantasies they might be entertaining—wealth, glamour, power, love? In the light cast by Jareth’s orb, Sarah could see that Hoggle’s cheeks were pink again, and he was studiously avoiding her eyes.

Now Sarah hoped even more fervently that Jareth lacked the power to read minds.

“Wocks pwetty,” Ludo said from time to time.

“Just so long as yeh don’t touch ‘em,” Hoggle warned.

In the next cavern, they encountered the first of what Jareth called “cautionary tales.”

“There.” He pointed a gloved finger.

In the midst of the vast space sat a pile of rubble—obsidian rock, mixed with gleaming gemstones. But here and there, Sarah could see grayish white ugliness marring the jewels’ flawless beauty. Bones—the skulls and long bones of whatever pitiful creatures had attempted to abscond with Aranea’s treasure.

Jareth circled around the mess, undeterred, and from among nearly twenty tunnel openings, chose one and strode into it.

“What are all these jewels _for_?” asked Sarah. “Besides baiting a trap? Does anyone ever get to enjoy them?”

“Only the royal family,” Jareth shrugged. “Theridion has a crown of diamonds and sapphires. Portia has an emerald ring—very powerful, too—called the Dragon’s Heart.”

“Why, what does it do?”

“Manifests her will.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

With an unkind laugh, Jareth said, “You expected any of this to be good?”

“Not with you in charge, no.”

Jareth glanced at her, amused, and Sarah realized he enjoyed this verbal sparring. She might be the only being he’d ever encountered who could stand up to him. Hell, she was probably the only being who’d thwarted him and lived to tell about it.

(ix)

They trudged through the tunnels for what felt like hours. Sarah began to grow numb and tired: she’d been awake for hours—around the clock by her reckoning—and her body was beginning to feel the effects of sleeplessness.

By the time they entered the fortieth or fiftieth cavern—Sarah had long ago stopped counting—she was almost stumbling. To her relief, Jareth paused and held up a hand for the others to pause, also.

“It’s here,” he said. “Somewhere in this cavern.”

Sarah looked down at the ground. “Will it be another trap door?”

“Each gate manifests itself differently.”

The cave was enormous, cathedral-sized. The group spread out, wandering within the chamber. Jareth moved at an unhurried pace, and at last Sarah sat on a big pile of obsidian. She was tempted to take a nap until Jareth finally found the damned gate.

Overhead, a gigantic diamond was embedded in the ceiling. Jareth had tossed the glass sphere up toward it, and the magical goblin-light, intensified by the gemstone, illuminated even the furthest reaches of the cavern. Against one wall, Sarah noted yet another “cautionary tale” of rubble, gems, and bones.

Eventually she closed her eyes, slipping into a doze, only jolted into awareness when Sir Didymus asked, “Hark, dost thou hear that noise?”

Sarah stood up, listening. “I don’t hear anything.” She yawned widely.

“Me neither,” Hoggle said.

Jareth was cocking his head to one side, then the other. A look of mingled rage and dread twisted up his features.

“Who picked up the stone?” he hissed, his glare focused on Hoggle.

Sarah, Hoggle, and Sir Didymus held up their hands, palms facing outward. Empty.

Sarah heard it, then: a far-off rumble, like a subway train deep underground.

“Ludo, yeh big oaf!” yelled Hoggle, eyes bulging. “Whatchu think yer doing?”

“Wocks pwetty!” Ludo wailed. In one paw, he clutched an emerald the size of a softball. “Wocks fwiends!”

“You imbecile!” Jareth yelled. He sprang over to Sarah’s side, taking her arm in his. “Stay with me,” he ordered.

In his anguish, Ludo began to bellow. And bellow and bellow. The walls of the cavern shook and rumbled, as if in the grip of an earthquake. Gemstones began to rain down, hitting the obsidian floor with a loud clatter. Sarah shrieked, ducking the colorful missiles.

From the mouths of a dozen tunnels came a tumbling mass of broken black stone and flashing gems, moving at a horrifying speed, coming at them from all sides. It was like watching the water gush from the topiary fountains.

“ _Avalanche!_ ” Hoggle wailed.

Ludo let out one final _aw-roo_. The old pile of rocks, gems, and bones amazingly began to shift, as if some force were drawing it forward.

“There!” yelled Jareth. “Run!” Still holding onto Sarah, he broke into a sprint, nearly flying. Sarah ran alongside him, adrenaline fueling her legs. They were charging toward the old rock pile, trying to escape being crushed beneath the rockslide behind them.

The old rock pile burst outward, sunlight streaming into the cavern, a sudden blaze of gold. Ahead lay the mouth of a cave. Jareth and Sarah ran through the stone archway, into the blessed light of day. Behind them followed Sir Didymus and Ambrosius, galloping at top speed, followed by Hoggle, with Ludo lumbering along at the rear.

Jareth steered Sarah sharply over to the left, getting her well away from the archway. The others followed. An instant later, a violent rockslide exploded out of the cave, obsidian and gemstones flashing and tumbling, as if under some incredibly high pressure, like water from a fire hose. Sarah felt the wind it stirred on her face, and she clamped her hands over her ears. The avalanche continued only until the gate was blocked, at which point the deafening noise abruptly ceased and the trembling ground grew still.

Sarah blinked, gasping, reeling from this second close call with doom. And then she blinked again; the precious gemstones had turned into ordinary gray rocks.

“Ludo sad,” the big beast wailed.

“Don’t be,” responded Sarah. “You found the way out.” She realized Jareth’s arm was still circled through hers, and she drew away from him with a pointed glare. He’d intended to pull her to safety and leave the others to be buried alive.

They were standing in front of an enormous rock face that rose up hundreds of feet in the air and extended to either horizon as far as the eye could see. There would be no going back the way they’d come. They could only go forward.

The stone shelf on which they stood sloped down gently about twenty feet into a copse of trees. Sarah had never been so glad to see green, living things. And then she realized where they must be.

“Is this the Forest of Spiders?”

Amused, Jareth said, “The forest—and the spiders—are deeper in.” He glanced at the western horizon, where the sun had begun to sink down. “This is as good a place as any to camp for the night. This way.” He hopped lightly down the rocky ledge toward the trees. Nobody argued with him.

**To be continued…**


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting three chapters today; hopefully will post final installments on 12-27-15.

Title: **Semi-Charmed Life**

Author: E.A. Week

E-mail: e.a.week at gmail dot com

Summary: Six years after her adventures in the Labyrinth, Sarah is now a senior in college. When two local children disappear under mysterious circumstances, she immediately suspects Jareth’s hand. But as ever, nothing is what it seems.

Category: _Labyrinth._

Distribution: Feel free to rec or link to this story, but **please** drop me at least a brief e-mail and let me know you've done this.

Feedback: Letters of comment are always welcome! Loved it? Hated it? Leave a review, send me a PM or an email and let me know why!

Disclaimer: Copyrights to all characters in this story belong to their respective creators, production companies, and studios. I’m just borrowing them, honest!

Credit where credit is due: The story title is stolen from Third Eye Blind. Part III title is stolen from Sinéad Lohan.

Story rating: This story is rated M (mature/ explicit) for language, sexuality, and adult themes.

**Part III**

_Out of the Woods_

The first trees were scraggly things, clinging to life at the edge of the rock face, but further in, the soil grew richer and springy underfoot, the trees more healthy, the plant life more abundant. After walking perhaps half an hour, the small party encountered a swiftly-moving, merry stream, beyond which lay a deeper forest.

“Here,” Jareth decided.

He’d chosen a good spot, Sarah had to admit: a grassy knoll overlooking the water. The embankment sloped down to a sandy beach along the stream’s edge. By now, the sun had dropped well below the tree line, and she guessed they had maybe two hours of daylight left.

She stared across the stream into the forest, seeing no signs of spiders.

“They won’t be this close to the borderlands,” Jareth provided. Maybe he couldn’t read her mind, but he could read her expression. “It’s too cold.”

It didn’t feel cold to Sarah—after the Caverns, it felt balmy beside this river, seventy or seventy-five degrees, easily. But maybe spiders preferred an even warmer atmosphere. She tried not to think about her biology classes, about the size some spiders achieved in tropical climates…

Jareth was heading for the woods.

“Where are you going?” Sarah demanded.

He looked back over his shoulder at her, eyebrows raised, then vanished among the trees.

“Bastard,” she muttered.

“Probably getting supper,” Hoggle shrugged. He rummaged around inside a pocket and withdrew a length of string with a small hook at the end of it.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Fishing line… what’d yeh think it was?” Hoggle deftly rigged up the line to his quarterstaff and tromped down the bank to the water’s edge. “Hopes yeh like fish.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Fish are okay.”

“Get some firewood, unless yeh wants to eat ‘em raw.”

Sarah laughed. “Will do.” She turned to find that Sir Didymus had slipped out of his neat little doublet and tossed aside his hat.

“What are you doing?” she asked, flummoxed.

“Hunting, my lady,” he responded, dropping down to all fours. “Wouldst thou care for a fine, fat hare? A lovely, juicy pheasant?”

“Uh… no thank you. I think fish’ll be just fine.”

“As thou wishes, my lady. Ambrosius!” The dog followed its master into the underbrush. Ludo shuffled off to forage on his own.

Sarah felt mostly useless. Hoggle had clambered onto a large, flat rock at the stream’s edge and had cast his line into the water. Sarah considered what to do. First, she removed her damp jacket, flannel shirt, and hat, hanging everything on low tree branches to dry. Incredibly, the little Apple music player still worked, even after the dunking in water, though the screen had grown dim with static.

Sarah roamed back into the woods, taking care not to stray too far from the campsite. Her first order of business was to relieve herself, which she hadn’t done since leaving Riley Hall. Luckily she’d thought to stash some Kleenex in a pocket of her jeans. Then she set about gathering up as many twigs and branches as she could carry. She made several trips back and forth, depositing the wood down on the sandy beach in a spot Hoggle indicated. In the course of her work, Sarah located a tiny waterfall, a trickle of cold water splashing down over a pile of rocks and into a brook that fed into the larger stream. She drank from the waterfall, then washed her hands and face. Perhaps at one time this rock pile had been part of the Caverns. The little brook was a half-mile upriver from their campsite, and Sarah decided she would use it as a boundary line: she wouldn’t wander beyond this point.

By the time she’d accumulated a decent pile of kindling, Hoggle had caught three medium-sized fish. At his instruction, she’d dug out a firepit, surrounding the indentation with stones. From the underbrush, Hoggle produced a number of large, green leaves, in which he wrapped the fish. Using a flint and steel, he started a small blaze in the firepit, and when the fire had burned down to hot coals, he put the fish in the pit, scraping more hot coals on top of them.

Sarah watched him work, not knowing quite what to say. She felt ashamed that she knew so little about Hoggle that it should surprise her that he knew how to fish, how to build a fire, how to cook. Of course, he would have to keep himself fed in the Underground, and she realized she didn’t know where he lived or what, if anything, he did for a living, or even something as basic as his age, or whether he had parents or siblings or friends. She knew that he liked pretty baubles, and yet he’d had the strength of character not to pick up anything in the Caverns. She knew he considered himself a coward, and yet he’d found the courage to defy Jareth. She didn’t know if he were a goblin or not—plenty of creatures besides goblins inhabited the Underground.

Since it would take the fish a while to cook, Hoggle and Sarah foraged through the undergrowth up and down the stream in the fading light. Hoggle dug up some roots, abandoning the first one in haste when the root turned out to be a living creature, which squealed and shook its tiny root-fists until Hoggle returned it to the soil; Sarah found something akin to blackberries growing in a thicket of low brambles.

“What do you think?” she asked, showing him the fruit.

Hoggle took one in his mouth, chewed, and gave it a cautious taste. “Mh-hmm,” he said, nodding. “Good. Them’s safe fer yeh, too, Missy.”

Now Sarah felt even more ashamed, that Hoggle had run the risk of poisoning himself on her behalf.

Something must have shown in her face, because Hoggle shrugged, “It’s no never-mind to me, Missy. Me gut’s tougher’n yours.” He fished into another pocket and withdrew a small, beige object that looked for all the world like a rolled-up nylon stocking. With a funny popping noise, the thing opened and expanded into a woven straw basket. “Put ‘em in here.”

“Hoggle… are you…?”   She circled the bushes, picking berries, dropping them into the basket. She didn’t know quite how to frame her question.

“What? She wants to know what’s poor Hoggle, exactly? Is he hob-goblin or ghoul or some other beastie?”

Sarah’s face grew hot. “I just… I was just wondering. Sorry.”

“I’ll tell yeh, Missy.” He was hunkered down, pulling roots from the soil with his strong hands. “He’s nothing, that’s what Hoggle is.”

“No, you’re not,” Sarah retorted fiercely. “You’re my friend, and that makes you something, right there.” Then she asked, “Were you… were you born in the Underground? Have you always lived there?”

“Nope,” he said, not quite looking at her.

“So… where were you born?”

“Place called Straubing,” said Hoggle. “In the Freistaat Bayern. Might not even still be there, now.”

“Bavaria?” asked Sarah. “And yeah, Straubing’s still there. It’s…” Realization dawned on her. “Did you… were you… are you… human?”

“Not any more, he ain’t.”

Sarah wished Hoggle would stop referring to himself in the third person, but perhaps it made telling this story easier. “How long ago was this?”

“Ages,” he said, keeping his back to her. “Lost count, long time ago.”

“So how’d you… oh, God. Did someone wish the goblins to take you away?”

“His sister,” said Hoggle, morose now. “Four boys, all tall, strong lads. Not the fifth one, though. Hobbart wasn’t like the others. Small. Strange-looking. Brothers teased him. Father hated him. Thought Hobbart was a punishment. A smear on the family, he said. Younger sister hated that she had to look after him. _Der Zwerg_ , that’s what he was. A freak. And then, when Sister was six and Hobbart was eight, she made the wish that took Hobbart away forever.”

“She wished for Jareth to take you away?” asked Sarah, aghast. “Did she realize what she’d done? Try to get you back?”

He made a noise, halfway between grunt and laugh. “Her?”

“I’m sorry, Hoggle. That’s terrible.”

“That’s where he’s been ever since. Hobbart then, Hoggle now.” The dwarf’s shoulders went up and down.

Sarah felt sick to her stomach. If she hadn’t challenged Jareth, her own brother might have become like Hoggle, not quite human but still not fully goblin. She wondered how many of the creatures in the Underground had once been human children. She wondered if Sacha and Ivanka would share this fate if they weren’t rescued.

“Long time ago,” said Hoggle. “Doesn’t matter, now.” He jerked his head in the direction of their campsite. “Them fish’ll be done pretty soon.”

“Let me pick a few more of these berries, and I’ll be right behind you.” Sarah continued to forage, avoiding the sharp thorns, and trying to cool her burning face before she returned to the campsite.

(ii)

Complete darkness had fallen. Overhead, only a sprinkling of far-away stars was visible; if any moon shone in this realm, it had hidden its face tonight.

Hoggle and Sarah stayed near the fire. The fish had turned out tender and well-cooked, though almost completely flavorless. Sarah didn’t mind the taste of the roots, but she disliked the texture, which made for a peculiar dining experience. The berries also baffled her with their blandness: she’d expected them to be tart or sweet, but they were neither. The food filled her up, but left her feeling oddly unsatisfied. Hoggle enjoyed the meal a lot more than her, and he’d added to his own menu a few mushrooms, which he cautioned Sarah to avoid.

After eating, they washed their knives and hands, built up the fire, and sat staring into the flames for a while. Sarah had removed her boots and socks, drying them by the fire.

“So, what’s been happening in the Underground?” she asked at length. “Anything new or exciting?”

“Not so’s you’d notice,” Hoggle responded. “Quiet, mostly. Himself’s been keeping to the castle, at least that’s the gossip.”

“Bruised ego,” Sarah smirked.

Hoggle looked around, then leaned forward, keeping his voice low. “Yer the only one who ever got the better of ‘im. ‘Ee’s been stewing over it, they say.”

“Yeah.” Again and again, Sarah relived the moment when she’d made that flying leap to save Toby. Incredible to think that after all this time, Jareth had come back seeking her assistance. She kept wondering about his ulterior motives. Admittedly it could be as simple as wishing to prolong his existence. She wondered how long Jareth had been alive. Assuming Hoggle had been born some time during the European middle ages, Jareth might be ancient. It wouldn’t have surprised Sarah if he’d been around since the dawn of humanity. In a weird way, that made sense: he often seemed to her the very embodiment of the worst human vices. A being so selfish would not take kindly to the thought of his kingdom’s destruction.

Sarah also wondered why Jareth hadn’t killed her in retaliation for thwarting him. Surely that was within his power. But maybe not; he was more of a trickster than a killer. Perhaps this journey represented nothing more than an opportunity for him to settle the score with her? Sarah disliked this thought, but she shrugged it aside: she’d made her decision. They were halfway through the journey now, and it was too late to change her mind. She could only keep going forward.

“What about you?” asked Hoggle. “What’s it like back there, now?”

“Oh—so different from what you must remember,” Sarah responded. “We have machines now that do a lot of work for us. There’s billions and billions of people on Earth—too many, really. It’s polluted. Dirty,” she clarified. “But wonderful. I’ve been… at school. Studying. Art. And history.” She laughed. “I’m almost done, now.” She really didn’t know what else to say, considering the vast chasm between their frames of reference. She wasn’t sure how much Hoggle would understand. “Do you have any way to… I don’t know, to look into our world?”

Hoggle shifted, looking all about, and Sarah could see how much he didn’t want Jareth to overhear any of this. “There’s places in the Labyrinth,” he whispered. “Sometimes you can sees out into the other worlds. Not just yours, Missy.”

“How much do you know about Aranea?” asked Sarah. “How much have you seen? We haven’t met any other… inhabitants, I guess you’d call them, except the fairies.”

“Used to be,” Hoggle provided. “Mostly at the center, I thinks. There was a nice town surrounding the palace. Pretty place. Reminded me of home. Last time I looked, it was all empty, though. All those houses, crumbling into nothing.”

Sarah sat up straighter, realizing Hoggle had just provided an interesting piece of information.

They heard a loud, rustling crunching noise, and Ludo ambled out of the woods out onto the embankment. He yawned, belched, and flopped down in the grass. A few moments later, he began to snore.

Sarah laughed. “I can see insomnia’s never going to be a problem for him.” She stood up and stretched, realizing again her exhaustion. “Good night, Hoggle.”

“Gd’night, Missy,” he said.

After one last pee call in the woods, Sarah decided the safest and warmest place to sleep would be next to Ludo, so she curled up in the crook of his body. He opened one eye long enough to murmur, “Sawah fwiend” before falling asleep again. She drifted to awareness some time later, realizing that Ambrosius and Sir Didymus had returned; after some quiet conversation, they also curled up against Ludo’s bulk, Sir Didymus with his long tail covering his nose. Lulled into relaxation by the chorus of buzzing and snoring, Sarah fell deeply into slumber.

(iii)

She awoke at some indefinite point during the night. Without a moon, there was no way to tell the time; the darkness was inky, pressing on her eyes. The fire on the beach had burned out. Sarah listened to the sounds around her. The light, almost inaudible sighing she took to be Sir Didymus. The incredibly loud, deep rumble was unmistakably Ludo. A low, adenoidal snoring she guessed was Hoggle—it sounded like the dwarf had settled down for the night over on the other side of Ludo. She heard a quiet whine from down near Ludo’s feet: that must be Ambrosius. Merlin had sounded much the same way when he’d slept.

Sarah eased away from Ludo’s warmth and sat up. A spark of light caught her attention. When she saw it again, she realized it was coming from beside the river. Sarah stood, padding silently down the grass embankment and across the sandy beach. How odd not to worry about cutting her bare feet on glass or litter.

Jareth sat on the large, flat rock, one of his spheres suspended in midair before him. He’d enlarged it to the size of a soccer ball, and he seemed to be focusing intently on the images contained within it. Sarah wondered where he’d been, what he’d eaten, whether or not he required sleep. She had no doubts that whatever his biological needs, he would have tended to them well out of the sight of the others. Maintaining his dignity, his sense of superiority, would be paramount.

Without shifting his attention from the sphere, Jareth gestured with his left hand for Sarah to come closer.

“What is it?” Sarah kept her voice very soft.

“Look.”

Within the glass orb was darkness—not complete darkness, she realized, it was full of pinpricks of light, like stars in the night sky. Then Sarah saw that same small flash, a very quick, brilliant burst of white light, at the center of the sphere. It looked, she thought, the way an enormous explosion might look if viewed from very, very far away. For no good reason, this filled her with dread and distress, a sense of having witnessed some unspeakable cataclysm or tragedy, the scope of which lay far beyond her ken. A few moments later, the darkness within the sphere filled with hot red streaks.

Sarah looked at Jareth. “A meteorite storm?”

“Hmm?”

“Meteorites. They’re… like burning rocks that sometimes fall from space onto Earth.”

“A rain of fire,” he said, his voice ominous. “At the last dark moon.”

“That would be a year ago in our world,” Sarah mused. She’d still been in France. After a few moments’ thought, she shook her head. “I don’t remember anything about meteors.” Sarah had made it a point to read _Le Monde_ and other French-language papers daily during her year abroad, to keep abreast of current events and hone her language skills. She knew she would have remembered reading about a meteorite storm, especially one that looked so spectacular.

“It might not’ve been seen in your world,” Jareth responded, watching the scene again. “But after the rain of fire, the anomalies started. Things falling through. The Labyrinth re-ordering itself of its own volition. Time running strangely. Aranea’s fairies flying into the other-worlds, as if Theridion and Portia had found a way to exert their will outside their own kingdom.”

“That can’t have sat very well with you.”

“Wait ‘till we’ve gone through the Forest of Spiders, then tell me how much you want things from the other-worlds falling through into your own.”

“ _Touché_ ,” admitted Sarah. “So, you think this is all connected? The meteorite storm, the weird things happening, Theridion and Portia grabbing the twins?”

“It must be.” Sarah realized another thing that frustrated Jareth: not having the answers to everything. “I could feel time bending,” he muttered. “Everyone felt it.” The sphere returned to normal size, casting a soft light over the river bank. “When we traveled from the Underground to Aranea, it took too long. Far too long. We should have been here in an instant. The walls between worlds are warped and distorted. Things are falling apart.”

“Will we be able to get back?” asked Sarah.

“Perhaps.”

An ominous silence hung between them. The light from the orb turned Jareth’s eyes silver; he had never seemed more fey or otherworldly or ageless.

Sarah straightened up with a sigh and reluctantly drew away from him. “What time is it, anyway? I should get some more sleep.”

“A few hours until dawn.”

“Okay.” Sarah turned and began padding back across the beach.

“Sarah?” His voice drifted to her, a gentle caress on the night breeze.

“Yeah?” she said without turning around.

“Thank you… for coming with me.”

Sarah thought he was full of baloney, but she smiled to herself and said, “Whatever.” Unable to resist mocking him a bit, she added, “Good night, Jareth.”

His voice taunted her right back. “Good night, Sarah.”

She climbed up the bank and returned to her spot by Ludo’s side. Falling asleep took longer this time.

(iv)

Her bladder awoke her in the gray dawn. Sarah wished she could sleep longer—she had no desire to enter the Forest of Spiders any time soon. But nature’s call couldn’t be ignored. She hauled herself to her feet and lurched into the woods. The tiny waterfall lay not too far away, so after she’d zipped up, Sarah made a detour to wash her hands and face.

She took Jareth completely by surprise. He must have had the same idea: on a nearby boulder lay his cloak and gloves. He was splashing water over his face and perhaps for that reason, he didn’t hear her approach until she’d nearly crashed into him. Sarah jerked back, an apology forming on her lips. And then she stared. And stared.

Until now, she had never seen Jareth without the gloves. Long, silky-smooth, pearl-gray, they were almost as much a part of him as the amulet or his mismatched eyes. For the first time, Sarah realized why he kept his hands covered. They were beautiful hands—was there no part of him that wasn’t beautiful?—slim and long. But instead of ending in fingernails, they were tipped with ivory claws.

Sarah was standing close enough to see that he kept the claws filed down, but they showed signs of beginning to grow out. Why did he bother? Plenty of goblins had claws. His expression was mortified, as if Sarah had caught him naked and exposed. He stood, bracing himself, waiting for her to sneer, or to make some vicious remark.

Without really thinking, Sarah took another step and held out her hand. Jareth squirmed for a moment, then slowly extended the right hand, letting Sarah examine the claws more closely. Taking care, she lightly touched one with a fingertip. The claws appeared to be made of ordinary keratin, harder than human fingernails, more like a horse’s hooves or a cat’s claws. They would make formidable weapons if left to grow to their natural state.

Sarah had begun stroking the skin of his hand, and she started to draw away, realizing she had crossed a very dangerous line. But Jareth’s expression stopped her: hungry and full of longing. He’d let down more of his guard even than when he’d offered to be her slave, and he was doing nothing to raise his usual defenses. Sarah could deal with his arrogance, his capriciousness, even his cruelty. But against this unexpected vulnerability, she could do nothing. And so she offered no protest when he took that last step forward and kissed her.

He didn’t seize her or force his tongue down her throat, just pressed his lips to hers. And yet the shock, the pleasure of contact, were so astonishing that Sarah closed her eyes, wishing for nothing more than the sensation to continue and never stop.

The world fell away while they kissed—all of it: Aranea, the twins, the spiders—nothing mattered but this, this stolen moment, suspended in time, as achingly perfect as Sarah’s most feverish dreams. The kiss went on and on, Jareth’s lips supple and firm and delicious beneath her own—

A horrified little cry broke the spell like a slap across the face. Hoggle stood not five feet away, staring up at them, his expression one of disbelief and betrayal and pain. And then, in a whirl, he was gone.

“Shit,” whispered Sarah. “Shit, shit, shit.”

(v)

They broke camp without ceremony. Sir Didymus was his usual voluble self, praising Aranea’s hares as especially tender and delicious. If he noticed any tension, he said nothing of it. Ludo was happy and agreeable as ever, offering to carry Hoggle across the river on his back (“Ludo cawwy Hoggle”) and then returning to bear Sarah across. Ambrosius dog-paddled, bearing Sir Didymus on his back. Jareth leaped across in three bounds, his feet tapping rocks in the stream.

He led them through the forest without so much as a glance at Hoggle. Sarah couldn’t tell whether or not he were gloating; if he did, she would hate him forever. This would be an interesting test, she thought. If he truly desired her affections, he’d lay off poor Hoggle. If he couldn’t resist the temptation to make the dwarf miserable—well, in that case, Sarah decided, she wanted nothing to do with him. Bad enough that she’d kissed him. What had she been thinking? Or not thinking, as the case had been?

The ground sloped down as they progressed. Jareth didn’t move in a straight line; he meandered, zig-zagging through trees and around thick patches of brambles. Sarah avoided the sharp thorns, but took advantage of those odd, tasteless berries for breakfast. Did all food in this realm have no flavor? Or was her human palate not sensitive enough to detect it? She let this question distract her for a while. Her quads ached and her toes hurt from being mashed against the front of her boots. No doubt about it, they were moving downhill.

The air began to grow warmer and more humid. Sarah had unzipped her jacket, stuffing the hat and gloves into the outer pockets. Now she removed the jacket entirely and carried it over one arm. On their next rest break, she removed the flannel shirt and tied it around her waist. Ludo, Ambrosius, and Sir Didymus were all panting. Hoggle glowed with sweat. Only Jareth seemed unfazed by the change in climate. When they crossed another stream, Sarah took the precaution of drinking as much water as she could stomach, and she encouraged Hoggle to do the same. Those were the first words she’d spoken to him all day.

Around noon—or it seemed like noon, anyway—Jareth signaled for them to stop.

Keeping his voice low, he said, “From here we enter the spiders’ territory.” He slipped his sword from its sheath, using the tip to lift the leaves on a low tree limb. “There.”

The others circled around for a better look. The web was a classic orb, perhaps six inches in diameter. At the center of the concentric rings rested a small arachnid, fawn-colored, with a lighter, almost blonde stripe. It was really quite pretty.

The web fascinated Sarah: the silken strands were shimmery, a lovely light gold. Sarah thought that the spider would be almost invisible against the web. That must be the whole purpose.

She straightened up. “All right,” she said, feeling silly for her earlier fears.

“Don’t be so sanguine,” Jareth chuckled. “That’s one of the smaller ones, that live on the outer perimeter.”

“They get bigger?” asked Sarah.

“Yes—much bigger.”

“Wonderful,” Hoggle muttered. “In case yeh’s hadn’t noticed, I’d make a perfect-size snack for a big spider.”

“I won’t let them,” Sarah promised recklessly. “I’ll protect you.”

Jareth smiled; he found this exchange amusing, but he said nothing. Sarah had to give him credit for at least exercising restraint.

Sarah added, “Sir Didymus, you and Ambrosius and Hoggle all stay together. Ludo, you bring up the rear, and yell if you see us walking into anything dangerous. You can see right over the tops of our heads.”

“Ludo smush spiders,” he agreed happily.

“No, you don’t,” Jareth countered. “The spider is the sacred creature of Aranea, and anyone who harms even one hairy leg is executed automatically.”

“Oh, crap,” Sarah complained. “What if we step on one?”

“Be sure you don’t,” Jareth told her. “Most of them are tree-dwelling, to avoid the snakes that prey on them.”

“It just gets better and better, doesn’t it?”

Jareth met her gaze, eyes dancing, as if he enjoyed Sarah’s mordant humor.

“One more thing,” he said. “The spiders are venomous. Deadly venomous.”

“To humans?” asked Sarah.

His answer took her by surprise. “Not to humans,” he said. “You’d only be in excruciating pain for five or six days. Provided you didn’t kill yourself to end the pain, you’d survive. But for goblins…” He shrugged. “Instantly fatal.” He gave Hoggle a pointed look.

“I shall protect the noble Hoggle!” Sir Didymus declared, shifting his lance. “No foul beast of the jungle shall breach my offense!”

Jareth tossed a sphere into the air, and it expanded out, so that they all could look into it. “We’ll travel around the outer edge of the jungle,” he said, showing them a simulacrum of the region, a crater-like depression. “The most dangerous place is the very center, where the terrain is lowest. We’d never get through—it’s the lair of Arhet-na-Harika, the Queen of the Spiders.” He touched his amulet. “The gate to the Wasteland is on the other side of her lair.”

Sarah remarked, “At least the gate isn’t in the middle of her boudoir.”

“The gate is on the border of the Wasteland,” Jareth said, smiling again at Sarah. “It’s too cold and dry there for spiders to survive.”

“Okay,” said Sarah. “We take the long way around. I can deal with that.”

The sphere vanished. “Stay very, very quiet,” Jareth ordered them. “Don’t speak, don’t cough or sneeze, don’t even breathe loudly, and whatever you do, _don’t touch a web_. The spiders have a hive mind, and if you disturb even a single thread, you alert every spider in the jungle.”

“Do they have any weaknesses at all?” asked Sarah.

“Just one,” Jareth said. “They’re blind. Their hearing more than makes up for it, and their sense of touch is the most sensitive of any creature in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Good to know the deck isn’t completely stacked against us.”

“Any questions?” asked Jareth.

The others shook their head mutely.

The Goblin King led them further into the trees.

(vi)

They kept in a strict order, walking single-file. Jareth went first. He moved at an unhurried pace, and Sarah could only hope he was employing any extra goblin-senses he might possess. Sir Didymus followed on Ambrosius, the dog moving with remarkable stealth. Hoggle walked behind them, choosing his footing with great care. Sarah went next, following the path of the others as closely as possible. And Ludo brought up the rear, silently; it fairly astonished Sarah that a creature so large could move without making any noise.

The environment had changed from forest to jungle. The plants were more tropical, here and there sporting flowers of breathtaking color, though nothing in this realm tempted the senses as had the Gardens and the Caverns. Sarah had all she could do to concentrate on her footing and watch out for stray spider webs—she didn’t need any other distractions.

She had a better sense, too, of the circuitous route Jareth had chosen: they were traveling out and around in an arc. To the left of them, the ground continued sloping down, into vegetation so thick and dense that Sarah doubted they could have gotten through it without a bulldozer. To their right, the ground continued sloping upward, and Sarah wondered if the entire outer edge of this realm was like the place where they’d camped: stony, cool, and dry. She wondered why Jareth didn’t take them to higher ground—she wouldn’t have minded a longer journey, if it meant avoiding spiders entirely—but that might have taken them days or even weeks, and there was no telling whether they’d be able to find enough food or water to survive.

She guessed that Jareth had taken them far enough into the jungle to save time, but far enough outside it to avoid the largest spiders. She knew it shouldn’t surprise her that he could make plans with such strategic care, but still, it wasn’t what she’d expected. These new things she was learning about him threw her off-balance. How much easier it would have been to hate him without reservations. Then she considered: if she truly loathed him, she’d never have accepted his request for assistance, regardless of the threats to her own world.

_All right, all right!_ she yelled at herself. _So you’ve had the raging hots for him since you were fifteen years old! So what?_ She knew she was hardly the first woman on Earth who’d fallen for a cad, but she didn’t find the knowledge comforting. In fact, she felt downright mortified. For most of her young adulthood, Sarah had prided herself on choosing even the most casual boyfriends with scrupulous care, rejecting any she’d deemed unsuitable. Her approach to men had always been coolly rational: no way was smart, savvy Sarah Williams going to lose her head over a lout or a bad boy or some selfish, inconsiderate oaf. She regarded with pity and scorn those women who got themselves entangled with men who were nothing but bad news.

And now she felt both humiliated and humbled, as if she’d been brought low, forced to share the common lot of womankind. _Oh, stop being so melodramatic; get the hell over yourself!_ The mental scolding continued. _It’s not like Jareth is even an ordinary guy; he’s a **goblin** for crying out loud! It’s not like you couldn’t resist the charms of some eleventh-grade pervert; this is a guy who’s been around for eons and has some seriously supernatural mojo working for him. Pretty much anything with a pulse would swoon over him_.

She felt a guilty flush every time she stared down at the top of poor Hoggle’s head. He was her friend, her dear friend, and for the first time in her life, she regretted the misery someone else’s unrequited love for her had caused. This was something that in the past, she’d always been able to shrug off. In her more obnoxious years, she’d actively enjoyed her ability to break hearts, but as she’d matured, she’d tempered that vice. Now she was miserable. She’d never meant to hurt Hoggle, but she would never feel for him the way he felt about her, and she hated knowing that she was causing him such pain.

At least Jareth wasn’t gloating over the situation, something she would have expected. She half-wished he would, so she could loathe him without qualm. Dammit, why did he have to be so beautiful, so charming? She brooded over the incident at the waterfall: why did he have to look at her with that ache in his eyes, like he was dying inside? Why couldn’t he just be a bastard through and through? She thought about his hands, wondering why he kept the most obviously goblin part of himself hidden. Wouldn’t the goblins respect him more? Or perhaps he didn’t want to acknowledge he was one of them; maybe he would rather impress upon them that he was different, superior?

Sarah warned herself to keep her focus on walking, and her eyes scanned the vegetation on all sides, but her thoughts kept returning to Jareth. She re-lived that kiss over and over, like a Victorian damsel re-reading a suitor’s love letter. God, it had been so perfect, everything a kiss should be, and more. She didn’t want to think what might happen if she went to bed with him. He’d probably own her forever.

_Would that really be such a bad thing?_ an evil little voice in her mind asked.

Sarah didn’t dare to answer.

(vii)

Nothing terribly frightening happened, and after a while, boredom began to replace trepidation as the group’s dominant emotion. Sarah kept shaking herself, realizing that ennui could lead to carelessness, but in truth, Jareth had plotted their route so well that they didn’t appear to be in any kind of real peril. The sloping ground provided the greatest challenge; the muscles in Sarah’s legs were killing her, in completely different ways. She had to keep pulling up with her right leg, and the large muscles of her thigh protested. Her left leg she used mainly for balance, so everything below the knee was singing “Ave Maria.” Also, her head was beginning to blur from the disorientation of traveling in an arc instead of a straight line.

Jareth didn’t stop, and this Sarah understood completely; she had no wish to pass a night in this place, and despite her legs, she was willing to press on. _Hey, think of the great workout_ , she told herself. _People pay good money to go to gyms and have trainers beat them up like this_.

At last, with the sun sloping toward the west, they began to move uphill, still zig-zagging, but at least traveling in more of a straight line, and with luck, putting the spiders behind them.

Jareth picked up the pace. After so much awkward hiking, the sensation of using all her leg muscles in synchrony was a positive delight, and Sarah longed to break into a run. She shifted her jacket from one arm to the other; more than once she’d debated casting the thing aside, but she had no idea what the Wasteland would be like, and she might well want the extra layer. Besides, the pockets were a convenient place to stash things.

She could tell from the others’ body language that they were as relieved as her to be putting the nightmare jungle behind them. Sarah realized the vegetation around them was becoming less tropical, the air less humid. For the first time since that morning, the hint of a breeze touched her sweaty face. Absurdly, this filled Sarah with such happiness that she could have sung and danced. Soon they would be on higher ground, in a more temperate climate. Whatever challenges the Wasteland held, at least there she wouldn’t have to worry about being devoured by spiders.

When the next breeze came, Sarah broke into a wide smile, exhaling with pleasure.

Maybe she’d just breathed too loudly. Maybe she’d inadvertently broken something underfoot. Maybe her scent had carried on the breeze. Maybe it was something one of the others had done. Sarah didn’t know. Not that it mattered anyway. One moment she was walking uphill, lighthearted, and the next she was staring straight at an arachnid the size of a dinner plate, not three feet from her face.

She froze, motionless, only moving her lips enough to wheeze, “Jareth.”

The others stopped and turned. And froze.

“Oh, my lady,” Sir Didymus murmured.

The spider hung in lazy midair, its legs flickering toward Sarah, as if tasting the air—or trying to taste _her_. It was darker than the tiny thing they’d seen earlier, brown, with golden tiger stripes, but the same essential shape. The thread it spun was also golden, glistening in a shaft of sunlight, more beautiful than it had any right to be.

Behind Sarah, Ludo whimpered.

_How could this be happening?_ Sarah wondered. They were out of the spiders’ territory—surely it was too cool here, too dry? This spider shouldn’t be so big! It wasn’t fair!

“Sarah, Ludo,” Jareth said, speaking just loudly enough for them to hear him. “When I tell you to duck—duck.”

Sarah mouthed the word, _Okay_.

In a subtle, stealthy movement, he reached for something inside his ruffled shirtsleeve.

“ _Duck!_ ”

Sarah didn’t try anything fancy: she just dropped right down to her knees. She felt a quiet thud behind her as Ludo also hit the ground.

One of Jareth’s tiny throwing knives whistled through the air, severing the spider’s golden thread. Noiselessly, the creature landed in the soil, now maybe a foot from Sarah’s knees. She stayed where she was, too paralyzed with fear to move.

She heard a rustle, and from out of the undergrowth darted a serpent so perfectly camouflaged that Sarah could only perceive it by its motion: it changed colors with each undulation of its body, chameleon-like, invisible against its background. She had the impression that it was large, cobra-sized. The snake’s mouth opened, and it snapped up the spider in a single gulp, then vanished into the undergrowth opposite. The whole thing happened so quickly that the adrenaline didn’t kick in until Sarah was back on her feet, Ludo offering a massive arm to steady her.

“Oh—wow,” she managed, heart racing in palpitations.

“Get moving,” Jareth said. “We’re in for it.”

“But we didn’t touch a web,” Sarah protested. “We didn’t kill the spider—the snake did.”

Jareth pointed up. Sarah saw, stretched between two tree limbs, a golden web easily nine or ten feet in diameter. She shuddered violently. From this web, the spider had descended. And now Jareth had put them all in danger by saving her from the spider’s bite.

From deeper in the jungle came a kind of hissing, chittering noise.

“Oh, no,” Hoggle moaned.

“ _Move_ ,” Jareth ordered.

Freed from the need for stealth, they bolted up the slope, dodging trees, brambles, crashing through undergrowth. When a web blocked their path, Jareth hacked it down with his sword, skewering the web’s inhabitant straight through its abdomen.

_In for a dime, in for a dollar_ , Sarah thought. They could worry about being executed later.

The ground beneath their feet had begun to shake in an irregular, rhythmic percussion, and they heard a deep, groaning bellow, like the sound of ancient stones grinding together.

“It’s _her_!” Jareth’s eyes bugged in their sockets. “Arhet-na-Harika!”

“How far away is that gate?” Sarah yelled as they sprinted.

“Not far!” Jareth clutched his amulet in his fist.

The trees had begun to thin out, the air was cool and dry now, crisp as an apple, and Sarah wished she could pause to appreciate this miracle, but she was running for her life (again!), almost doubled in half, not liking at all the sound of millions of scrabbling feet behind her. And over that quick, fast staccato came the loud, heavy thunder of bigger footsteps, as if the _Tyrannosaurus rex_ of all spiders were in pursuit.

Sunlight! Sarah burst out of the final strand of trees—

—and came to a horrified, sudden halt. The loose stones she’d kicked clattered down into the chasm that lay before them, stretching in either direction as far as they eye could see, half a mile wide and as deep as the Mariana Trench. On the opposite side rose another high rock wall, which paralleled the length of the chasm.

There was one way across: a log bridge, maybe a foot wide.

“Nooo,” Sarah moaned.

Jareth didn’t waste time. “Ludo—you first.”

The big beast clambered across the log, using the claws of his forelimbs and hindlimbs for purchase, balancing with ease.

“Well, now we know it’ll hold our weight,” Jareth said. “Sir Didymus!”

“Hie-yah, Ambrosius!” the fox shouted, and the sheepdog went galloping across the log as if he were romping in an open meadow.

“Hoggle,” said Jareth. Muttering darkly beneath his breath, the dwarf set out across the bridge. Perhaps because he was so short and had a low center of gravity, he had no difficulty balancing on such a precarious perch.

“Sarah—your turn.”

“Noooo,” she moaned. “I hate heights—I have vertigo! It’s not even flat; how’m I supposed to balance on that thing?”

The horrible chittering and booming of the spiders was coming closer; Sarah knew it would only be a matter of seconds before—

Her feet went out from underneath her: Jareth had scooped her up in his arms. “Close your eyes,” he commanded.

Sarah was only too happy to comply. She was aware of movement, of wind on her face, then Jareth was setting her on her feet again. They were on the other side of the bridge, on a narrow, rocky ledge, looking back across the chasm and the green forest.

The trees on the edge of the woods collapsed like matchsticks, and from the forest burst a monster of mind-boggling proportions: a gigantic spider, the size of a house. Sarah screamed and screamed, watching the thing rear back: it was going to shoot out a web and crawl across the chasm, but Jareth had foreseen this. He cast a glass orb from his hand, and it zoomed in a blur across the log bridge, like a bowling ball at warp speed, then exploded into a sphere so vast that it entrapped the queen spider and dozens of other smaller spiders within it.

“Ha!” shouted Jareth, looking insufferably pleased with himself.

“How long will it hold?” asked Sarah.

“Long enough!” He turned her away from the spectacle, pointing to the sheer wall of rock that rose up before them, identical to the granite cliff that separated the Jeweled Caverns from the Forest of Spiders. “Through there!”

“Where?” she said, but the others had seen it: a proper archway, a shimmering thread of gold outlining the gate. Ludo vanished into the wall, then Hoggle, then Sir Didymus and Ambrosius. Jareth steered Sarah by the arm, and they walked straight through the solid rock as if it weren’t there. Sarah felt a cold breeze touch her cheek. The last thing she heard was the enraged bellow of Arhet-na-Harika, then all she could hear was moaning wind.

(viii)

“Excuse me.” Sarah ducked behind the nearest pile of rocks. There was a small crevice between the boulders, and she used this as a toilet, carefully rationing out her Kleenex when she was done. She hoped the tissues would last for the rest of this journey. Then she removed her jacket, slipped into the flannel shirt and gratefully buttoned it up, glad she hadn’t abandoned the extra layers in the Forest. The wind was bitter here. Sarah jammed her hat on her head.

She was pulling on her gloves when Hoggle emerged around the stone pile.

“Yer all right, missy?”

“I’m fine... just needed a bathroom break and a wardrobe adjustment. Floods, faeries, avalanche, giant spiders—all in a day’s work, right?”

Hoggle grunted.

“Are _you_ all right?” asked Sarah.

“Been better,” Hoggle responded.

“Are you going to be warm enough?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“It’s freezing here!”

“Goblins don’t feel the cold,” Hoggle shrugged. “Not the way you lot does.”

“As long as you’re okay.”

Hoggle gave her a look, as if wondering why she cared.

“Look... about before... I’m sorry. I didn’t know what I was doing.”

Hoggle shot her a withering expression from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “Sure you didn’t, Missy. Sure you didn’t.”

“I’d never do anything to hurt you,” insisted Sarah.

“Too late for that, ain’t it?” Hoggle shook his head. “Doesn’t matter, anyways. Now come on—himself’s getting impatient.”

(ix)

The Wasteland had been appropriately named, although the moniker could hardly do justice to the utter desolation. After the Gardens and the Forest, Sarah had come to believe all of Aranea must be warm and humid. The dry, frigid cold of the Wasteland came as a rude shock.

No sun shone here. Overhead, a thick, stormy gray pall blotted out the sky. The cloud cover was moving, though, driven by the incessant wind, as if the clouds themselves were in a hurry to get somewhere. Maybe just out of this place.

The clouds held no moisture; nothing had ever grown in the Wasteland. The terrain consisted of rocks, piles of gray boulders everywhere, as far as the eye could see, on all sides. The high rock face that rose up behind them was the only differentiating feature. The infernal wind moaned among the boulders, whistling and shrieking, finding its way beneath Sarah’s clothes like dead, skeletal fingers.

_Wonderful_ , she thought. _Either I’m going to die of thirst or starvation, or I’m going to freeze to death, or I’m going to go crazy from listening to the wind_.

Jareth stood atop a large rock, hair and cloak blowing out around him in a kind of dark magnificence. The sun must be somewhere, hidden beneath the clouds, otherwise there would be no daylight at all. Sarah hoped Jareth could use the sun’s energy to help him locate the final gate. He leapt down from the rock, landing without a sound, and pointed.

“There.”

The direction he indicated seemed no different from everything else around them, but he’d guided them through mesmerizing gardens, maze-like tunnels, and dense forest, so by this point, Sarah had come to trust his orienteering skills.

“All right,” she said, and they followed along behind him, scrambling up, down, and around stones. Sarah could feel how loose her clothes had become. _If I ever get out of this place_ , she thought, _I’ll be skinny enough to model for_ Vogue.

(x)

Their progress was difficult and mind-numbingly dull. When possible, they went around the piles of stone, but more often than not, they had to do some amount of climbing. Before long, Sarah’s entire body began to ache. She kept her misery to herself, suspecting Hoggle must be faring no better: at least she had long arms and legs to aid with the climbing. The tall rock piles also presented a challenge for Ambrosius. The sheepdog was agile, able to leap and climb among the boulders, but there was no way for him to manage when the stones were too high to scale and too sheer to gain purchase. So Ludo became a kind of pack animal, carrying Ambrosius in his arms and letting Hoggle ride on his back.

Sir Didymus had dismounted from Ambrosius and traveled on all fours, scaling the rock piles with an ease that made Sarah scowl with jealousy. Even more irritatingly, the climate and the environment didn’t faze him in the slightest.

“Feel that bracing wind!” he’d cry out, perched on the pinnacle of a stony outcropping. “Marvelous!”

Sarah had all she could do not to scream at him.

Ludo also was in his element: the cold didn’t penetrate his dense coat, and he was big enough and strong enough to scale the boulders. The bleak environment didn’t trouble him. “Ludo help Hoggle,” he’d say. “Ludo cawwy doggie.” Sarah was grateful for his assistance.

Jareth bounded up and down the rock piles as if he had springs in his legs. He could leap cat-like to the top of each pile, and then drop down to the other side, landing without injury, balancing like a gymnast on any surface. He’d watch Sarah’s progress with a smug expression, not offering help, and she was too proud to ask. Bad enough he’d carried her across the log bridge like a child.

Sarah began to feel the effects of hunger and thirst: she was dizzy, tired, light-headed. Still, she didn’t ask for a rest break: she didn’t want to delay their exit from this realm any more than could be avoided.

Conversation grew limited, mostly confined to navigating the stone maze. Sarah thought she would grow mad if she didn’t look at something besides gray stone and gray sky.

She had no idea how much time had passed when it occurred to her to ask Jareth, “The light hasn’t changed at all… has it?”

He glanced up. “No.”

“So we don’t have to deal with night?”

“Nothing ever changes here,” he said. “That’s the whole point of the Wasteland. It’s always the same.”

_So this is a different kind of danger_ , Sarah thought. _The monotony can drive you mad_. She thought of Ernest Shackleton’s men, surviving the months of sunless, Antarctic winter while their ship had been embedded in pack ice. How had they done it? She seemed to recall they’d exercised, played games, sung songs. In her mind, Sarah began to work her way through every ABBA song she knew. It didn’t make the climbing easier, but the remembered music and lyrics kept her thoughts occupied, reminding her of cheerful, happy things.

Some time later—she couldn’t have said how much longer—she noticed a subtle shift in the terrain. It took a while for her to determine what had changed, and after perhaps another hour, she gave voice to her thoughts.

“Is it me, or are the rocks getting smaller?”

“It’s not you,” said Jareth.

They didn’t have to do so much climbing now, circling their way around the larger stones. This development put energy into Sarah’s exhausted limbs, and she pressed on, eager for the sight of something different.

By the time another two hours had passed, the rocks had dwindled to the height of Sarah’s knees: she actually had to search for a boulder large enough to duck behind. The bathroom break was the first she’d taken since their arrival in this realm, understandably enough: she hadn’t had anything to drink since the Forest. All things considered, Sarah guessed they’d been climbing through the desolate landscape for five or six hours.

Inspiration struck her: the Apple music player had a digital clock built right into it. Sarah unzipped her inner jacket pocket and drew out the tiny device. She held her breath when she pressed the play button, almost cheering when the Apple logo appeared on the screen, a reminder of civilization and home. The time it showed was 12:42 PM. _Ugh_ , Sarah thought. She’d been gone for a day and a half.

Until now, she hadn’t thought much about Ivanka and Sacha. She could only hope the kids were okay. She was afraid to ask Jareth what the king and queen of Aranea might actually do to the twins to drain them, how long it would take. Sarah had visions of a gruesome bloodletting. _God, I hope we’re not too late_ , Sarah thought. _All this for nothing!_

She switched off the music player and zipped it back into her pocket.

The stones continued to grow smaller as the group progressed. Sarah was still cold, thirsty, hungry, but at least she didn’t have to expend so much effort. She willed herself to keep trudging.

Eventually, the larger rocks vanished altogether, replaced by a vast field of loose scree. Sarah turned around, glancing back at the endless ocean of stones, now receding behind them. After another hour, even the scree had become little more than gravel. Jareth crunched along, indefatigable, one hand around his amulet, marching toward a signal only he could detect.

The wind was worse out here in a way, without the big boulders to break it, and Sarah wrapped her arms around herself, jamming her hands beneath her armpits. When she turned around now, the bigger stones had vanished beyond the distant horizon.

The gravel became pebbles, and before long, the pebbles became sand. Now, they were traversing an endless, cold, windswept desert. Fine clouds of sand blew through the air, scouring Sarah’s face.

Sir Didymus was riding Ambrosius again. “I say, we really must find water soon, Your Majesty.”

“Patience,” Jareth grunted.

At first, Sarah didn’t notice the snow, mostly because it blended with the gray sand, and besides that, she had to keep blinking to keep the sand out of her eyes. But half an hour later, the white patches couldn’t be missed.

“Snow!” she exclaimed.

“We’ve been moving north,” Jareth confirmed.

_How can he tell north from south in this place?_ Sarah wondered. She reached down and touched the snow: the flakes were very small, fine, and dry.

After another half-hour, the snow lay deep enough on the ground to be scooped up by the handful. It was a painful, uncomfortable way to get water, but the snow melted in the mouth, and Sarah relished the cold, liquid trickle going down her throat. The others, except Jareth, were also taking advantage of the opportunity to hydrate themselves.

The snow cover grew deeper, and before long, it was around Sarah’s ankles, and her feet began to feel like blocks of ice. The desert had become a snowfield, monotonous gray replaced by monotonous white. The loose snow blew unpleasantly into Sarah’s face like microscopic spicules of ice.

“How much further?” she moaned.

Jareth glanced at her, amused. “So little fortitude.”

“Piss off!” she snarled. “I’d like to see you try being human for one day! You’d curl up in a corner and cry like a baby.”

Rolling his eyes, Jareth said, “It’s very close now.”

His idea of “close” was so far away that the snow was up to Sarah’s knees. Hoggle was riding piggy-back on Ludo again. Sir Didymus had dismounted from Ambrosius, and the sheepdog bounded through the snow in delighted leaps.

Jareth came to an abrupt halt and pointed. “There,” he said.

Sarah squinted, shading her eyes. And then she saw it: along the distant horizon, a slate-gray line.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Another cliff,” he responded.

The last two gates had been in cliff walls. This thought put energy into Sarah’s legs, and they plodded onward. Now, the snow was midway up Sarah’s thighs, soaking her jeans, so that she was wet, as well as freezing. Her feet stung, an agony of pins and needles. But the rock wall grew closer, looming up overhead.

_Almost there_ , Sarah chanted in her mind. _Almost there, almost there_.

And then she saw something else: a dark, pewter-colored ribbon in the snow.

“What’s that?” she asked.

Jareth didn’t break his stride, but he answered, “The Great River. It flows alongside the cliff wall. The gate should be downriver about a mile.”

“Halle-bloody-lujah,” she sighed.

At last they came to the riverbank. As Jareth had said, the river wound its way alongside the cliff. Up close, the water wasn’t pewter-colored at all; rather, it was clear as glass, reflecting the gray sky overhead.

“Is it solid enough to hold us?”

Jareth strode out across the ice surface. “It’s so cold, nothing melts here.”

Sarah made her way over the ice, keeping her balance low. She had learned how to skate as a child, and even in boots, she had little difficulty staying upright. It was easier to slide, pushing off with each foot, than to try to walk normally and have her feet go out from under her.

Ludo, Ambrosius, and Sir Didymus all used their claws to gain purchase. Sir Didymus even slid around a bit for pleasure, a graceful vulpine ice ballet.

Top-heavy Hoggle was hopeless. Arms held wide, eyes full of fear, he slipped and slid and fell onto his rump.

“Uff,” he grunted.

Jareth burst into unkind, mocking laughter. Infuriated, Sarah ran straight at him, turned her body in a wicked sideways slide, like a hockey player, and shoved into him. Jareth went flying backwards, but instead of landing ignominiously on his ass, as Sarah had hoped, he turned a spectacular backward flip in midair and landed on his feet.

Sarah was merciless. “Don’t laugh!” she screamed, shoving Jareth again. “Don’t you dare laugh at Hoggle! He’s doing the best he can!”

Jareth’s attention wasn’t on Hoggle; it was on Sarah, and she realized that he enjoyed her anger, even enjoyed being pushed around by her. She came to a halt, exhaling a loud sigh. Jareth’s expression grew disappointed: he wanted her to continue. That evil voice in Sarah’s mind wondered if he would enjoy being sexually dominated as well. Since there was so little that could actually hurt him, he’d probably get a kick out of it.

Deliberately she turned her back on Jareth and went to help Hoggle stand upright.

“Don’t like ice,” he muttered. “Never have, never will. Hoggle’s no good on ice.”

“Come on,” she said gently.

Sir Didymus came sliding over on one leg, the other extended behind him, then leaped off the ice, landing and spinning in a flying camel. “I shall assist the noble Hoggle!” he cried out. He stopped spinning and slid an arm through the dwarf’s. “Thou shall lean on me, brave Hoggle, and I shall balance thee.”

“Thank you, Sir Didymus,” Sarah responded. “It’s good to know someone around here understands kindness.” She shot a dirty sideways glare at Jareth.

Amused, Jareth whirled around and strode off downriver. Sarah made sure Sir Didymus and Hoggle were moving all right and followed behind them. Ambrosius leapt about, running forward, sliding on his rump, _woo-wooing_ with pleasure. Then he’d scramble up to his feet and do it all over again. Sarah laughed, watching him, surprised at herself. She’d almost forgotten how good it felt to laugh. Ludo bounded along on all fours, also enjoying the novelty of the ice. Sarah wondered if winter ever came to the Underground.

They progressed slowly. Sarah glanced about, but there wasn’t much to see: just the high cliff on the right and the snowfield on the left. Perhaps it was the exertion of sliding and trying to stay upright, but she realized she’d begun to sweat beneath her clothes. She stuffed her cap into a coat pocket and loosened up the zipper around her neck. _Wow_ , she thought, _it’s really getting warm here_. Even the wind had dropped. Perhaps the high cliff acted as a buffer against the incessant gale.

_No_ , Sarah realized. The wind had dropped completely; even out in the snowfield.

She ventured a look up, and what she saw alarmed her. For the past miserable hours, she’d been longing for the sight of the sun. Now, she realized, she was going to get her wish. The clouds were beginning to thin out and break up, patches of cobalt blue visible through the hazy white clouds.

And then she saw the thin skin of water beginning to form atop the ice surface and realized the danger they were in.

“Jareth!” she screamed. “We have trouble here!”

Jareth must have been absorbed in his thoughts, because his head jerked up. He glanced about from side to side, recognizing the danger of their situation.

“Get moving!” he barked.

The others did the best they could, but now the ice surface was a slippery, watery mess, and Sarah could hear ominous creaking noises from deep beneath their feet.

“Shit!”

Jareth strode on ahead of them. “Around the next corner,” he said, pointing.

The clouds continued drifting apart, and a few moments later, the sun came out. It may have been the first time in the endless history of Aranea that the sun had shone in the Wasteland. Immediately, the air began to feel hotter.

“They know we’re here,” Jareth called back over his shoulder. “This is their retaliation for killing that spider.”

Sarah struggled to keep up with him, keeping worried eyes on her companions. Ambrosius had scampered on ahead, and now was almost on Jareth’s heels. Hoggle and Sir Didymus were ahead of Sarah, and Ludo was behind her.

“Come on, come on!” Jareth shouted impatiently. They’d rounded the next bend in the river, and he was pointing at a spot in the featureless rock wall. “It’s right there!”

The others were slogging through ankle-deep water now. _Not too much further_ , Sarah thought.

With a bestial groan and shudder, the ice surface began to break up.

“Look out!” Sarah screamed.

A hole opened directly in front of her. Hoggle and Sir Didymus vanished.

“NO!” Heedless of her own safety, Sarah threw herself onto her stomach, sliding across the ice and flailing her arms into the frigid water. “Hoggle! Sir Didymus!”

“Sarah, no!” yelled Jareth.

“Sawah! Sawah!” Ludo cried.

The ice beneath Sarah gave way, and she plunged into the freezing blackness.

**To be continued…**


	4. Chapter 4

Title: **Semi-Charmed Life**

Author: E.A. Week

E-mail: e.a.week at gmail dot com

Summary: Six years after her adventures in the Labyrinth, Sarah is now a senior in college. When two local children disappear under mysterious circumstances, she immediately suspects Jareth’s hand. But as ever, nothing is what it seems.

Category: _Labyrinth._

Distribution: Feel free to rec or link to this story, but **please** drop me at least a brief e-mail and let me know you've done this.

Feedback: Letters of comment are always welcome! Loved it? Hated it? Leave a review, send me a PM or an email and let me know why!

Disclaimer: Copyrights to all characters in this story belong to their respective creators, production companies, and studios. I’m just borrowing them, honest!

Credit where credit is due: The story title is stolen from Third Eye Blind. Part IV title is stolen from Counting Crows.

Story rating: This story is rated M (mature/ explicit) for language, sexuality, and adult themes.

**Part IV**

_Daylight Fading_

Black. Everything around her was black.

Cold. The absolute cold of liquid ice, soaking her clothes and penetrating every cell of her body.

The crushing weight of water. Sarah flailed, thrashing her arms and legs, but her limbs were like lead now, and she couldn’t tell which way was up or down. The pressure crushed her lungs. Air! She had to have air!

Hoggle and Sir Didymus! Where were they?

Something that wasn’t ice or water brushed Sarah’s face. Instinctively she grabbed onto it. Fabric. Wet fabric. She clutched onto it for all she was worth.

Up. Something was pulling her up by the hands. Sarah could feel herself rising, rising. The pressure lessened. And then, incredibly, her head broke the surface. She sucked in a lungful of air, gasping and spitting out water.

The thing she was grasping was Jareth’s cloak. He lay flat on the treacherous ice, holding on to the other end of the garment. Sarah could hear groaning and cracking and explosive pops all around her. Overhead, the wicked sun shone in a brilliant turquoise sky.

“Hold on,” ordered Jareth.

“I am,” Sarah choked. “Hoggle—Sir Didymus—where are they?”

The surface of the water whelmed, and up came Sir Didymus, flying out of the river like a seal. He landed nimbly on an ice floe.

“ _Where’s Hoggle?_ ” Sarah screamed.

“Oh, my lady—will thou please forgive me? I searched wide and far, and could not catch sight of brave Hoggle.”

“Keep looking!” wept Sarah. “Please, keep looking!”

There was a loud groan of distress, and from the corner of her peripheral vision, Sarah watched as Ludo bobbed past on an ice floe.

“Sir Didymus, steer Ludo over to the gate!” Jareth barked. He was pulling Sarah out of the water and onto a patch of ice. All around them, the ice was breaking up, and the formerly smooth, glassy surface was now a jumbled mass of icebergs. Even more alarmingly, the current of the river had begun to grow stronger. “All of you, go through and wait on the other side. I’ll follow with Sarah.”

Sir Didymus didn’t argue. “Yes, Your Majesty!” he cried out, and dived off the ice floe. A moment later, he surfaced behind Ludo and began to steer him over to the gate in the wall. He whistled for Ambrosius, who yelped, and splashed into the water after them.

“Hoggle,” Sarah moaned.

“Sarah, keep your focus,” Jareth barked at her.

She was shaking violently from head to foot, barely able to hang onto Jareth’s cloak. He pulled her along, tugging her toward the cliff wall. She felt she could have borne the most agonizing torture if only poor Hoggle had survived.

Jareth awkwardly backpedaled through the frigid water, dodging icebergs and muttering to himself. He didn’t seem to be in any pain from the cold water, but a kind of raw, naked fear came off him.

“What?” Sarah gasped, alarmed by his expression. “What is it?”

“The ice isn’t only melting here,” Jareth said. “Feel that current? The ice is melting upriver, too—all that water is heading straight toward us.”

“No,” Sarah moaned around her chattering teeth.

Jareth grunted, tugging her along. A hard swell of water knocked Sarah off the patch of ice, plunging her beneath the surface again. She kicked furiously, clinging to Jareth’s cloak like a lifeline. He hauled her above the surface.

“Sarah—there it is! Come on!”

They were in the shadow of the high wall now, and Sarah could see the thin outline of the gate. She lunged for it, heedless of the cold water, limbs trying in vain to approximate swimming. From upriver she heard a roaring noise, like a runaway freight train.

“River’s cresting,” said Jareth.

With one last, desperate frog-kick, Sarah threw herself at the granite wall. She passed through the gate, tumbling onto something that felt like hard, dry, cold stone. A moment later, Jareth landed beside her. And then came the sound of roaring water, sweeping past the cliff outside, sending a seismic shudder through the vast wall of rock. Not a drop came through the gate—the magical doorways must be impervious to water.

Then Sarah was weeping, shaking in great, convulsive gasps. “Hoggle,” she sobbed. “Oh, Hoggle, I’m sorry!”

So monstrous was her grief that she barely noticed the sudden presence of light: Jareth had illuminated another of his spheres.

“Sarah. Here. Stop this. It won’t bring him back.”

“Shut up!” she sobbed. “You monster—how could you ever understand?”

Something warm draped over her: Jareth’s cloak, now completely dry. Sarah almost threw it off. How could she seek comfort when poor, dear Hoggle was gone?

“Sarah—come on—stand up.” Jareth grasped her elbows and hauled her to her feet. Sarah shook uncontrollably, icy rivulets running down her skin. Then Jareth drew her closer to him, pulling the cloak around her shoulders. Warmth seemed to radiate out from the fabric. And then, amazingly, Sarah was completely dry.

The pleasure of being warm and dry again seemed so horribly wrong. Sarah stepped back, unwrapping the cloak and thrusting it at Jareth.

“Thanks,” she gasped, wiping her face. He was the last person she would ever turn to for comfort, but at least he’d done what he could to improve her physical condition. She couldn’t function if she were half-immobilized by pain and cold.

He made a self-deprecating grunting noise. Sarah glanced around, curious for the first time about their surroundings. They stood in a stone corridor—not a crude tunnel, like the Jeweled Caverns, but hand-made, the walls and floor smooth. The floor, in fact, had been tiled in hexagonal tiles of black and gold.

“Your Majesty?” Sir Didymus called. “Lady Sarah?”

“Here,” she called in return, lurching toward the sound of his voice. The tunnel ended after about a hundred feet. On a wide stone balcony sat Sir Didymus and Ludo, looking numb with grief. Even Ambrosius seemed dejected, tail drooping.

“My lady,” said Sir Didymus. “Please believe I did everything within my power to save noble Hoggle.”

“I believe you,” Sarah responded. “I don’t blame you.”

Jareth spoke. “He must’ve been swept downriver, under the ice.” He didn’t seem especially sorry about it.

“Ludo sad,” the great beast spoke.

Sarah buried her face in his shaggy pelt; she cried and could not be comforted.

(ii)

She had to move on. They were so close now, and Sarah knew Hoggle would have wanted her to keep going. She wiped her face on her scarf, took a few deep breaths to steady herself, and stared out at the world around them.

This must be the town that surrounded the Palace of Aranea, the place Hoggle had said was crumbling into nothingness. Sarah saw his assessment had been correct: not a breath of life stirred in the town below. In the far distance sat a heap of masonry and towers that must be the palace. Even from this distance, Sarah could tell something was terribly wrong.

Jareth was also looking in the direction of the palace, holding up a crystal to his left eye and looking through the glass like a telescope.

“What’s going on there?” she asked.

“Half the palace is in ruins,” he grunted. “Like it was blasted… scorched.”

“I wonder if a meteorite struck it,” Sarah responded. “You said there was a rain of fire when all this started.”

“The town is deserted,” he said. “Best be careful, though.” The crystal vanished. “This way.”

The others followed him down a flight of stone steps that led to ground level. Sarah noted the masonry crumbling in places. It looked like nobody had tended to the steps in several years.

They emerged from the staircase into an alleyway. Sarah realized how tall the buildings were, rising up overhead, blocking the view of the palace. She’d noticed from the balcony that the streets of the city were narrow, twisting, and this one seemed to be leading downhill.

The buildings themselves were narrow, constructed of some smooth, white material, with roofs of bright blue title. The window frames were arched on top, and Sarah could tell they had never been designed for glass panes. It must be so warm here there was no need to close windows.

Overhead, the sky held a reddish cast, a thin layer of clouds covering the sun like old, dried blood.

“What happened?” whispered Sarah. “Where is everyone?”

“Gone,” said Jareth ominously.

Some of the ground-level windows had been adorned with flower boxes, but the plants that once had grown within them were withered and dry.

The Dead City, Sarah named the place.

“Don’t go inside any of the buildings,” Jareth warned.

“Not gonna argue with that one,” Sarah muttered.

He led them down the cobbled streets. Sarah could tell this had been a lovely town, well-cared for by its inhabitants. Here and there she spotted poignant mementos of interrupted lives: a broom resting against a wall near a door frame, a broken wooden children’s toy, a small upended pushcart. The blank windows were like a skull’s eyes, watching. Sarah wondered what lay inside those houses. She wondered what was worse, knowing or not knowing.

The street led down, connecting to another, and to another. This had been a prosperous, well-populated town. The houses had been decorated and pretty: window boxes, brightly painted front doors, tiled front steps, tiles set around window frames. Sarah didn’t see any signs of chaos, nor a single dead body, so whatever misfortune had stricken the populace, it hadn’t lasted long enough to cause panic.

Here and there were places of business, identifiable by the colorful plaques on their front doors. A needle and thread suggested a seamstress or tailor; an image of a bowl and vase might have marked the home of a potter. Sarah couldn’t decipher some of the images, and this seemed like a bad time to strike up a casual conversation about the iconography of local commerce.

She noticed Sir Didymus was holding his head up, sniffing the air, ears twitching. Ludo lumbered on noiseless feet behind Sarah.

The silence pressed on the ears, deafening. Sarah realized what else was missing: the sounds of animals and nature: no birds sang, no insects chirped, no dogs barked. It was as if everything had died along with the city’s inhabitants.

They reached the city center without incident. The wide, windswept square must have been the town marketplace. There was a stone fountain, now dry and cracked. The inside had been lined with black and gold title, and water would have spouted from a stone carving of a spider. Sarah shuddered. Around the square were buildings that might have been pubs or taverns, common buildings. These appeared as empty as everything else.

Set in and around the town square were trees and flowerbeds, the plants all dead, leaves and flowers withered, tree trunks and limbs dry. Whatever catastrophe had struck this part of Aranea, no living thing—apart from the fairies—had been spared.

The ground began to climb again outside the marketplace. Sarah found it interesting, in a detached sort of way, how the town seemed similar to the Forest of Spiders, which also had been situated in a crater. She thought of the possibility that Aranea had been struck by meteorites in the past, creating those deep depressions in the earth.

She wondered if a similar meteor strike had been responsible for the deaths of the citizens here. In that case, Sarah would have expected the buildings to be more damaged, but everything was oddly intact. Poison gas? A meteor-borne alien virus that had killed everyone instantly? If so, there would be bodies in the streets—at least a few.

As they ascended the hill, Sir Didymus grew more alert, his ears twitching. Sarah watched him tighten his grip on the lance. Jareth drew out his sword. Sarah wished desperately for her longbow. She had one weapon left: the dagger Jareth had given her. Now it felt terribly inadequate in her hand.

She heard a soft whirring noise, a quiet chitter. For one wild moment she thought it must be spiders again. And then the fairies appeared.

This time, there weren’t many of them. Jareth cut down a dozen with a few well-timed swings of his sword. Sir Didymus skewered a couple, and Ludo threw five or six into the sides of buildings. The remaining fairies swarmed back together and vanished.

“Why’d they give up?” Sarah whispered, casting an apprehensive look around, remembering those horrid fountains in the Gardens of Mirage.

“They’re just testing our mettle,” Jareth said. “That was the advance guard.”

“Lovely,” Sarah muttered.

“Come on, before they send in the cavalry,” said Jareth.

“What do you mean?” asked Sarah.

“Spiders,” Jareth said grimly. “Portia and Theridion keep spiders as guard dogs.”

(iii)

When they reached the top of the hill, they were almost at the foot of the castle. The edifice loomed up, bigger than Sarah had expected. The gray walls looked as though they’d been constructed from the stone of the Wasteland. Sarah craned her neck, peering up, but she couldn’t see any way in.

“They won’t send out heralds to greet us,” Jareth said. “We’ll let ourselves in.”

In the wall of solid rock, he found another of those invisible gates.

“What does this lead to?” asked Sarah.

“The royal crypt,” Jareth responded.

“Oh, great. The one thing we’ve been missing. Dead bodies.”

Jareth waited until Ludo, Ambrosius, and Sir Didymus had entered, and he said, “It’s the one place guaranteed to be spider-free.”

“Because spiders are afraid of the ‘Thriller’ video?”

Jareth made a face. “Spiders are symbols of life in Aranea. The royal family would never allow spiders into these crypts—that would be considered sacrilege.” Jareth gestured Sarah ahead of him. She went through the wall, glad to lea            ve the Dead City behind.

All was cool, musty, and utterly dark. A moment later, one of Jareth’s spheres lit up. Sarah bit her lip to keep from screaming. They were surrounded by hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of mummified corpses.

(iv)

“Well, we know where everyone went,” Jareth snorted.

Sarah’s legs nearly went out from underneath her, and she was aware of sweat pouring down her skin in sheets.

“They’re dead,” said Jareth, amused by her reaction. “They can’t hurt you.”

Sarah exhaled, regaining her composure. “Is this… some kind of… display?”

“Oh, yes.” They began strolling down the stone corridor past the grinning faces of the dead. “This is the funerary custom of Aranea. Takes some getting used to, doesn’t it?”

Sarah stopped short, staring at him. “You’ve been here before,” she accused.

“Once,” he shrugged. “Long ago.”

“So, people come here and _look_ at these?” Sarah started walking again.

“The crypts would be open on certain days. Holy days. People would come and visit their departed.” Jareth’s tone of voice indicated deep scorn for this custom, and his lack of respect irritated Sarah.

She paused to examine one of the bodies; now that her shock had worn off, she could examine them with more dispassion. The people of Aranea had been small—the body directly before Sarah had been that of a male, and by the look of things, he’d stood maybe five-foot-five. She noted his skull was definitely human—or humanish—as were his hands and ribs. This chap had been dead for a while, his clothes in tatters.

The catacombs were extensive, one corridor leading into another. The bodies had been dried out by some means, and while the majority was mostly skeletal, the flesh and skin of others were still intact, as dry and delicate as old parchment. A few even sported tufts of hair, which made Sarah smile for no good reason. She was careful not to touch the bodies, which had the alarmingly fragile appearance of antique porcelain.

Ludo and Ambrosius ambled down the corridors with no real reaction; perhaps their minds were too animal-like to process the significance of all this. Sir Didymus had removed his cap, holding it over his heart in a respectful gesture.

“So sad,” he murmured.

The endless display of bodies fascinated Sarah, reminding her of her work in France, watching the excavation of old church crypts. Funerary customs could tell much about the culture of a society: its hopes, fears, beliefs, values. The people of Aranea seemed to have celebrated death, in a very strange way. The bodies had been dressed in fine clothes or wrapped mummy-like in strips of cloth, either laid or propped upright in stone niches, or suspended upright from the walls in rows. She caught sight of officialdom on some bodies: they wore colorful capes or ribbons or pins or badges, and a couple sported distinctive black and gold caps.

Lining the base of the walls on both sides were glass-topped wooden caskets, in which rested yet more bodies. Some of these were tragically young, children laid to rest with toys or garlands of flowers.

At least there was no smell of rot, only a pervasive musty scent that reminded Sarah of old books and incense, like the inside of a church.

The further they walked, the newer the bodies began to look, more disturbingly lifelike, their clothes scarcely touched by decay. Jareth paused to examine a couple of these more closely, as did Sir Didymus. The fox’s nose twitched, and he said,

“Illness, Your Majesty. I can still smell it.”

“An ailment of the lungs,” Jareth agreed.

Sir Didymus said, “Hark, is that light up ahead?”

The corridor opened out into a circular chamber, an eight-sided room lit with fitfully flickering candles. In the center of the room was a raised dais on which rested a beautifully-carved stone crypt. Jareth tapped up the steps for a look, the others circling around.

Inside the glass-topped sarcophagus lay the bodies of two young girls, perfectly preserved, utterly breathtaking. They had been identical twins, their faces exquisite, skin like porcelain, lips the pale pink of seashells. Each girl had had long, curly red-gold hair that had tumbled past her shoulders. Each wore on her forehead a delicate diadem set with a single precious stone: ruby on one, sapphire on the other.

Sarah stood mesmerized by the girls’ beauty. They appeared to have been seven or eight years old when they’d died, their bodies small and slim. They’d been dressed in gowns of some extraordinary gold cloth. In the candlelight, the fabric shimmered like silk, but with a different texture, reminding Sarah of something she couldn’t immediately call to mind. A palpable sense of grief pervaded the atmosphere around the sarcophagus, as if the very molecules of air were in mourning.

At last Sarah raised her head, staring over at Jareth. Despite his efforts to remain aloof, Sarah could see a mix of grief and shock churning behind his eyes. For one crazy moment, she thought she knew why.

“Jareth… are these your daughters?”

He shook his head minutely. Finding his voice, he said, “These are—or were—the royal princesses of Aranea.” He pointed to the girl wearing the ruby diadem. “Princess Agelena,” he said, pronouncing the name with a hard “g.” Next, he pointed to the girl with the sapphire. “Princess Corinnda. They always wore those gemstones, to tell them apart.”

“Did you know they were dead?”

“No.” Jareth sounded haunted. “When I was here, ages ago, they were two years old.” Eyes very far away, he said, “I was to have married them.”

(v)

“Married?” Sarah repeated. “Seriously?” That he’d apparently been engaged to two prospective brides surprised her less than the fact that he’d been engaged at all.

Jareth came back to himself with a start, then hopped off the dais. “Whatever illness plagued the town, it took the princesses along with everyone else.”

“And the king and queen…?” Sarah wondered if this whole journey would be for naught, that they’d reach the throne room, only to find Aranea’s monarchs dead.

“We’ll see.”

Not one to indulge in sentiment, Jareth led them from corridor to corridor, whirling past the mummified bodies. Sarah glanced up at the vaulted ceiling, wondering why Theridion and Portia—if they still lived—had not yet sent guards to apprehend them. They’d known of trespassers in their kingdom since Jareth’s party had been in the Gardens of Mirage—why wait so long?

“Is there some way upstairs?” asked Sarah.

“Beyond the dungeons.”

“Dungeons?” repeated Sarah.

Jareth laughed at her naïveté. “All castles have dungeons. You should know that.”

“Whatever.”

The bodies had become skeletal again, even decrepit. Sarah had to watch her footing, to make sure she didn’t step on random loose bones scattered here and there on the stone floor. The dead people’s clothes had completely rotted away.

“These are old,” Sarah remarked.

“The oldest bodies in the crypt,” Jareth confirmed.

“So, what happens when the bodies are so old they just disintegrate?”

Jareth pointed to the walls, honeycombed with smaller niches. Each niche held a wooden chest.

“Dust to dust,” Sarah said. Poor Hoggle had not even had a proper burial.

The floor was sloping downward now, and the air grew unpleasantly damp. There still was no smell of decay, but she noticed the scent of mildew and stagnant water.

“How far do these go?” asked Sarah. She felt that they surely must have gone miles beyond the castle itself by now.

“Far enough,” said Jareth.

Without warning, they reached a heavy, locked door. Sarah wondered how Jareth would cope with this.

He put a hand over the lock, closed his eyes, and muttered something under his breath. Sarah heard a deep metallic _thunk_ , one piece of iron colliding with another. He stepped back, looking satisfied. The lighted glass sphere floated through the doorway ahead of him. Jareth followed, then Sarah, Sir Didymus, and Ludo.

The torture chamber wasn’t as bad as Sarah had feared, mostly because the instruments looked so old. Plainly, nothing here had been used in centuries—devices of wood and metal and leather, all rusted, broken, falling apart. The cells were empty and looked as though they had not been occupied in ages.

Jareth answered Sarah’s unasked question. “They stopped using this place back in the days of Portia’s great-great-great grandmother. It was easier to just throw their enemies to the spiders.”

“How enlightened of them,” Sarah snarked. “A kinder, gentler dictatorship?”

Sir Didymus had been making his own curious investigation, and now he gasped, “Oh—Your Majesty!”

“What is it?” asked Sarah, going to join him.

“Get away from that!” Jareth snarled.

It was too late—Sarah and Sir Didymus had already seen, and the glowing sphere illuminated the grisly discovery. In one corner, suspended from the ceiling by a chain, hung a rusted steel cage. Within the cage were the mummified remains of a grotesque creature. Enough desiccated flesh remained on the bones to convey a sense of what the thing had looked like in life. It hadn’t been very big, perhaps five feet tall at most. Its features were unmistakably inhuman, its eyebrows turned upward at the outer corners. Its ears had been large and pointed, its nose like a pig’s snout. Its leathery lips were drawn back over long, gray teeth.

Then Sarah saw the hands, the fingers tipped with curved ivory claws.

She reeled back. “It’s a goblin!” she realized. She whipped around to confront Jareth, whose face was contorted into an expression of blackest rage. “They left him here to die? In that thing?” Even by goblin standards, that seemed an especially horrific punishment.

Voice low with fury, Jareth said, “He was dead long before they put him in there. This is a trophy.”

“Did you know him?” Sarah’s head whipped back and forth between Jareth and the dead goblin, assessing the uncanny resemblance. _It can’t be_ , she thought.

“His name was Raedwald.” Jareth’s voice grated like an old, rusty hinge. “He was my father.”

(vi)

This second revelation of Jareth’s past rocked Sarah. She couldn’t stop staring at Jareth, then at the body, than at Jareth again. She couldn’t imagine it: Jareth had had _parents_. He’d been a child once; he hadn’t just materialized whole out of the primitive ether. The goblin in the cage had been King of the Underground before Jareth. Yet there could be no denying the similarities in the upturned brows, the shape of the eyes, the ivory claws. Yet this goblin was, by any standard, an ugly beast. Jareth was beautiful. How? _He must take after his mother_.

“What—what happened?” she asked. “To him?”

“The marriage negotiations didn’t work out so well,” Jareth shrugged.

“That’s why you came here with your father—so he could arrange your marriage to those two girls? How old were you?”

Jareth hadn’t shifted his gaze from the body in the cage. “Fifteen.”

Sarah tried to picture how he must have looked back then. He didn’t even seem very old now; by human standards he appeared maybe thirty-five. His face would have been smoother, unlined, his hair lighter, the color of flax. Sarah’s chest ached just thinking about it.

“What happened?” she asked.

“He tried to swindle them. Reneged on the initial contract, holding out for a share of mining rights in the Jeweled Caverns.”

“In other words, he got too greedy,” Sarah snorted, feeling less sorry for Raedwald.

Jareth’s eyes flicked toward her for a moment, irritated, but he didn’t contradict her.

“They didn’t take it well,” he said. “When Portia found out he’d been lying to her, she poisoned him with spider venom.”

Sarah shuddered. “And there’s no cure for that?”

“The only cure is the blood of an infant fairy, one that’s still suckling. Not that there was time to find one. The poison was too quick.”

“And what about you?”

“Thrown out of the kingdom. Obviously, the marriage was off.”

Exhaling, Sarah asked, “When do you think the girls died?”

“Who knows?” This question seemed of little interest to Jareth. “It might have been years or centuries. People of the Seven Kingdoms live longer than you humans.”

“So, what do you want to do about the… the body?”

Jareth pulled his gaze from the cage. “Nothing.”

“You don’t want to—I don’t know, bring him back for burial?”

“What difference does it make? He’d be just as dead.”

This callous indifference shocked Sarah, although she knew it shouldn’t.

“Besides, I don’t fancy dragging a rotting corpse around. Come.” Jareth turned on his heel.

Sarah took one last look at Raedwald’s remains. Sir Didymus removed his cap and bowed at the dead goblin, and they followed Jareth out of the torture chamber.

The dungeons ended at another heavy door. Jareth unlocked this, and they stepped through into a small, pleasantly cool and dry area. They stood in the base of a deep stairwell, gray light filtering down from above. The spiral staircase of stone steps had been tiled in gold and black, which Sarah guessed were the royal colors of Aranea. The railing was beautiful: black, ornate, the wrought iron balustrades worked into a design of spiders and spider webs and flowers, a startling, graceful effect. At the center of each metal flower glittered a piece of topaz.

No wonder Raedwald had gotten greedy, Sarah thought. The wealth of Aranea must be limitless if they could decorate even the simplest things so opulently.

“Up,” said Jareth.

Sarah followed behind him, Sir Didymus and Ludo on her heels. Now that the hour of reckoning was upon them, she felt oddly calm. Mostly she felt tired—she hadn’t slept since the night they’d passed outside the Forest of Spiders—and impatient for this whole journey to be over.

The stairs went up and up and up and up, until Sarah’s leg muscles grew numb from climbing, and her mind dizzy from going in constant circles. The staircase eventually opened out into steps that were wider and flatter, and then the stairs swept up into a chamber of magnificent proportions. The place took Sarah’s breath away. Overhead, a vaulted ceiling soared, the stone carved in exquisite designs, the wooden beams painted in rich colors. The windows were open to the elements, the casements decorated with colored tiles. Tapestries of extraordinary fabrics adorned the walls, showing pictures of fantastic creatures: Sarah wondered if those had been living things or if they represented figures from Aranea’s mythology. The floor underfoot was paved with more of those gold and black hexagonal tiles.

All around the chamber, in recessed niches and set out on tables, were vases of flowers that appeared to have come straight from the Gardens of Mirage, their beguiling scents wafting through the air. In the center of the chamber was a fountain, a stone pool with carved sculptures of dancing fairies, water streaming from their mouths. Red petals floated in the sparkling water.

Jareth strode across the tiled floor and around the fountain, his body language imperious. Sarah followed, and she saw that at the end of the chamber, on a raised dais, sat a man and a woman in large, stone chairs. Neither of them moved, and Sarah had to look twice to make sure they both were alive and conscious. They appeared, to human eyes, to be about forty or forty-five years old, though Sarah knew they must of course be much older.

The woman was blonde, blue-eyed, almost Nordic in her looks, her hair falling in a thick rope down one shoulder. She wore a gown of the shimmering gold fabric that had adorned the bodies of the two princesses, a textile of remarkable craftsmanship. The gown was fitted in the bodice, full in the skirt, the fabric heavily embroidered, so that it resembled damask. The sleeves were long, flaring out at the elbow, lined on the insides with black, the cuffs heavily trimmed in gold lace.

The queen’s jewelry must have been mined from the Jeweled Caverns. She wore a gold circlet around her forehead, from the center of which hung a gorgeous fire opal. Her throat was encircled by a collar of onyx and topaz. A thick belt of multicolored gemstones girded her slim waist, fastened by a long gold chain, the links studded with yet more precious stones. At the end of the chain swung a pendant: a spider of pure gold, its eyes a pair of glowing rubies. And on her right hand flashed the magnificent emerald Jareth had spoken of: the Dragon’s Heart.

When Sarah drew closer, she could see faint creases in the woman’s skin, traces of silver in her gold hair. This must be Queen Portia.

Her mate, King Theridion, had brilliant vermillion hair, the reddest red Sarah had ever seen, a tumbling mane of thick, luxurious curls. A small, neat beard of the same color framed the lower part of his face. His nose was aquiline, his eyes a luminous pale blue, his skin almost translucent. He seemed younger than Portia by perhaps five or seven years. A slim crown of diamonds and sapphires encircled his brow, intensifying the color of his eyes. He wore a masculine version of Portia’s garb: trousers of black silk and a hip-length tunic of embroidered gold, the sleeves lined with black and trimmed with lace, the waist cinched by another of those heavily jeweled belts. On his left hand he wore a ring fashioned to resemble a black spider with topaz eyes. His boots were black leather, knee-high. Sarah couldn’t see what kind of shoes Portia wore, but doubtless they were exquisite things.

The two of them made Sarah think of living Fabergé eggs, objects that should be displayed on velvet in a glass museum case. And then she realized what the fabric of their clothes reminded her of: the golden webs in the Forest of Spiders. _Spider silk_ , she thought, spun into thread and woven into fabric of incomparable beauty. She didn’t know whether to be impressed or creeped out. The corners of Portia’s mouth turned up into an indulgent smile, as if she’d read Sarah’s mind.

Now the queen’s gaze rested on Jareth, and her expression became one of scorn and loathing. He returned the look with a sardonic little bow.

“Portia, Theridion,” he said, nodding in the king’s direction. “May I introduce my companions: Miss Sarah Williams, Sir Didymus, and Ludo?”

Remembering her manners, Sarah made a quick bow toward the two monarchs. Sir Didymus and Ludo followed suit.

“Aah,” Portia sighed. “The half-breed returns at last.”

(vii)

Sarah’s head turned from side to side. Half-breed? Did Portia mean Jareth? From the way the Goblin King’s jaw tightened, Sarah guessed yes.

Smiling a bit, Theridion asked, “So what brings the Goblin King to Aranea? I must say how impressed we are that you passed through all four realms and only lost one member of your party.”

_One loss too many_ , Sarah thought.

“If you’ve been watching us, you know,” Jareth answered. “We want those children you stole.”

Theridion and Portia both laughed, a strange, hollow, mocking sound. How inhuman it made both of them seem. Even Jareth’s laughter didn’t sound like that.

“There’s a first,” Portia chuckled. “You, trying to retrieve a child taken by someone else?”

“The walls between the Seven Kingdoms are breaking down. Time is running out of control. Your fairies have been appearing in the Underground.”

Portia scoffed, “And yet, why do I feel none of those things would trouble you if you weren’t concerned about Aranea’s power expanding, becoming greater than your own?” The Queen laughed when Sarah glanced at Jareth, whose mouth vanished in a hard line. “Yes, it’s true,” Portia said, turning her attention to Sarah. “Aranea has always been the most wealthy kingdom because of the Jeweled Caverns. Jareth wouldn’t want us to become the most powerful kingdom as well.”

“Or perhaps he only wanted a reason to seek out the girl again,” Theridion smiled, looking back and forth between Jareth and Sarah. “The girl who thwarted him, yet who still haunts his every waking moment.”

Jareth shot Theridion a withering look.

Sarah had been putting pieces together, and she now addressed both monarchs. “What’s the point?” she asked. “Your kingdom is dying. Your children are dead. All your people are dead. Every living thing outside this castle is dead, except fairies and spiders. You have nobody left to carry on after you.” She met Portia’s cold gaze. “What happened? You’re too old for more kids of your own, so you kidnapped Sacha and Ivanka, to be your heirs?”

Jareth’s head whipped around, staring at Sarah, wondering how she’d worked out all that.

“This isn’t a kidnapping,” she told him. “They don’t want to drain the twins, or use their power. They’ve adopted them.”

Theridion and Portia shifted on their thrones. “Clever girl,” Portia said. “Very perceptive, for a human.” She smiled at Jareth. “I see why you like her.” When Jareth grimaced, the queen laughed again. “Oh, come, Jareth. Besides the family weakness for humans, why would you not be so besotted? She’s beautiful, intelligent, and strong-willed. For you, that’s an irresistible combination.”

Theridion spoke. “Very strong-willed, indeed. Her yearning equals yours, and yet she’s too steely to succumb to you.” His gaze bored into Sarah’s with such intensity that she felt like she was being x-rayed. “She’s willing to reject you, to set aside her own desires, in order to preserve her free will. None of your usual trickery and treachery works on her. You couldn’t seduce her to your bed, either.” The king laughed. “She deliberately hasn’t kept herself pure, in an effort to break your hold over her.”

“Excuse me,” Sarah glared, putting her hands on her hips. “The only person I keep myself ‘pure’ for is me.”

“A spitfire, too,” Theridion smiled. “I congratulate you, Mistress Williams. It takes an exceptional mortal to frustrate the Goblin King.”

Portia added, “Especially considering so many of your own love-dreams involve Jareth. Even when you lay with other men, you imagined it was him.”

“Mind-reading someone else’s sex fantasies?” Sarah shot back. “You need a better hobby.”

Jareth burst into wonderful, musical laughter, and Sarah had the satisfaction of watching Portia’s face flush an angry, mottled red.

Jareth said, “This is irrelevant. Whatever it is you’re doing to the fabric of time, it must stop.” He whirled around and pointed to the fountain. “That’s new. What are you hiding there?”

The king and queen grew cagey, and Jareth said, “You imagine I’m so headblind I can’t feel a disturbance when it’s close enough to touch?” He strode toward the fountain.

“Oh, confound you!” Portia exploded. She waved a hand, and the flow of water in the fountain ceased. Sarah heard a liquid burble draining away beneath the black and gold tiles. Then the sculpture began to sink into the floor, revealing something that had been hidden within the circle of dancing fairies.

Sarah put a hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Hovering perhaps two feet in the air above the tiled floor was something indescribable, a shimmering nimbus of shifting color, a kaleidoscope of light. Sarah found herself mesmerized just looking at it, and it seemed she could hear the sound of extraordinary, unearthly music emanating from that strange cloud.

And kneeling on either side of the nimbus were the twins, Sacha on the left, Ivanka on the right. They’d been dressed in the gold spider-silk of Aranea, each crowned with a diadem identical to those worn by the dead princesses. Sacha’s crown bore a white opal, Ivanka’s an amethyst. Their faces were pale, serene, rapt, as they gazed into the strange kaleidoscope of shifting color and sound, and even Sarah could tell they were absorbing some kind of energy from it.

(viii)

“How did this begin?” asked Jareth.

Sacha spoke in a strange, uninflected voice. “A rain of fire fell from the sky, and a hole tore open in Aranea.”

“It’s true,” said Portia. For a moment she sounded tired, beyond caring. She stood up, and Sarah realized the queen’s feet had been resting on a small, black lump of stone. Stepping aside, she said, “This is the thing that fell through.” She pointed up, to a hole in the ceiling. How bizarre that the entire roof had not been destroyed.

“May I look?” asked Sarah.

The queen nodded. Sarah hopped onto the dais and scooted down. The rock had a queer consistency: shiny and black, like glass—sand heated hot enough to melt, and then abruptly cooled—but full of lumps. Glommed onto one side was a twisted, half-melted piece of metal that had been etched with a peculiar design. Sarah leaned forward to examine it more closely. The design looked like a swirling pattern of two interlocked figure eights, with a pair of curlicues on either side, similar to Celtic knotwork, but at the same time very different.

“Don’t touch it,” Jareth warned. He was over near the fountain, staring into the shimmering cloud.

“What is it?” asked Sarah, stepping away.

“A relic,” Theridion shrugged. “A relic of a dead world.”

“It came through to us,” Portia said, “and showed us the secrets of time.” Sarah could see a disturbing gleam of fanaticism in both the king’s and queen’s eyes.

Sarah stepped back off the dais. “And this killed your people?”

“The rain of fire brought with it clouds of choking, poisonous dust, which sickened and decimated our people,” said Portia. “The clouds blotted out the sun, and nothing could grow. Those who didn’t succumb to illness starved to death.” For the first time, Sarah caught a hint of sadness in the queen’s voice.

“But the sun was shining in the Gardens of Mirage,” said Sarah. “Couldn’t something be grown there?”

Portia shook her head. “The soil in the Gardens is poisonous,” she said. “Nothing that grows there can be consumed. Only fairies can eat the Garden’s flowers.”

Sarah remembered the scarcity of food in the Forest of Spiders. There barely had been enough to sustain her and her friends, let alone a city full of people.

“What about you?” she asked. “You and Theridion survived.”

“The milk of the Queen Spider sustains us,” Portia said. “The ability to consume spider milk is a gift I inherited from Ecnaug-na-Tauret, the great foremother of all spiders and all the queens of Aranea.”

Somehow, it didn’t surprise Sarah that Portia was descended from a giant spider.

“And you didn’t feed the milk to your own children?”

“Too many questions!” Theridion snapped.

Sarah folded her arms and glared at him.

“They were too young,” said Portia softly. “Already stricken, before…”

“Before what?” asked Sarah. “Before you had a chance to wall them up in here, with you, where they wouldn’t be exposed to the radioactive dust? Is that what you did? Hid away while your subjects suffered and died?”

Portia had gone white as a sheet. “You insolent child,” she whispered.

“You selfish, heartless monster.”

The king and queen were both staring down at Sarah with murder in their eyes. She was aware that Jareth had come to stand beside her, his body tense, posture defensive. Seated on Ambrosius, Sir Didymus was shifting restlessly, watching the debate.

“And that’s what you’re doing to the twins? Feeding them spider milk? Turning them into monsters like you?”

“You know nothing of our suffering,” Theridion said.

Snorting, Sarah said, “I know plenty about the suffering of those children’s mother. What gives you two the right to take any woman’s children away from her? And why are you doing this? To prolong your miserable existence? Face it, you two, it’s over. Your kingdom is dead. You lost.”

Portia pointed to the shimmering nimbus. “We’re far from defeated.”

“So, what, you think some weird alien power source gives you the right to make those decisions?” asked Sarah. “To decide who lives or dies? Sorry, queenie, nobody has that right, magic powers or no magic powers.”

“The children will eventually go mad,” said Jareth. He nodded toward the strange cloud. “From what they see in there. They’re human. Their minds can’t absorb what they’re seeing.”

“Why, what’s in there?” asked Sarah. “You looked?”

“Everything,” he said simply. “Everything that ever was, everything that ever could be. All of creation, everywhere.”

“No way.” Sarah goggled at him, unable to fathom that kind of enormity. She turned again to the twins, who sat staring into the shifting cloud of light and color.

“It’s a schism,” said Jareth. “An open window in time.”

Portia said, “How convenient for you, Jareth, if the royal line dies out. If Aranea dies, the other six kingdoms gain more power.”

“The power balance of the other kingdoms isn’t my concern,” he shrugged.

Sarah had heard enough. She was tired of arguing with two such obstinate, selfish beings. She spun about and bolted over to the twins. “Sacha, Ivanka, you’re coming home with me,” she said. “Your mother is worried sick about you.”

“Let her worry,” said Ivanka. “We hate her.”

“No, you don’t,” said Sarah. “That’s a lie—of course you love her.”

“She never lets us have fun,” said Sacha, sounding petulant. “It’s all school, and homework, and chores, and more studying, and church on Sunday. She makes us fly to visit Babushka, and we have to eat boiled cabbage and beet soup and fish for a month, and Babushka tells us we’re going to burn in Hell for being so wicked.”

“You spoiled brats,” said Sarah. She was beginning to shake with anger. “Your grandmother is right!” She realized that if she’d failed in her quest to free Toby, if she’d stayed in the Labyrinth forever, she’d have been like this all her life: childish, selfish, spiteful. She’d never have grown up.

Sarah lunged to grab Ivanka. The girl saw it coming and turned her gaze upward, smiling at Sarah.

An agony of knives exploded through Sarah’s nervous system, and her knees buckled; she dropped to the floor, screaming.

Jareth bellowed with rage and launched himself at Ivanka. She turned her gaze to Jareth, and he fell from midair, landing on the tiles, but as soon as Ivanka turned her attention from Sarah, the pain ended as if it had never existed. Sarah sprang up and took another two steps, and Ivanka dropped her again.

Something small and silver whipped past Sarah’s head, striking Ivanka in the face and putting out one of her eyes. Jareth’s second throwing knife. The girl shrieked, loud and shrill, clamping hands over her wounded eye.

Theridion and Portia swept down from their thrones to defend their adopted children. Sir Didymus charged at them on Ambrosius. “Hie! Thou shalt not pass… not pass…” His hand went up to his face. “My liege, I cannot see!” he cried out. Ludo was groaning, staggering around. Sarah felt her eyesight began to grow dim, and she also experienced a numbness in her extremities.

“Jareth, it’s Sacha! He’s doing this!” she shouted, but her voice sounded very far away, and she realized her hearing was rapidly fading. She was trapped in a sensory vacuum, unable to see or hear or feel anything.

Everything came back at once, as if someone had flipped a switch, and she saw that Jareth had tackled Sacha, throwing his cloak over the youngster’s head.

“Filthy vermin!” snarled Theridion, grabbing Jareth by the throat. “Filthy half-goblin scab rat!” Jareth flailed, kicking, but Theridion topped him by six or eight inches and outweighed him by a hundred muscular pounds. Jareth’s face began to turn purple.

Sarah frantically searched her pockets for a weapon. Her hand closed over the tiny Apple music player, and she whipped it with all her strength at Theridion’s head, hoping to distract him long enough for Jareth to break free. What happened next astonished her: the king bellowed, jerking about as if he’d been shocked, a web of blue-white electricity crackling all over his body. He yelled and yelled, and then, without warning, he simply vanished.

“NO!” Portia thundered.

“What happened?” gasped Sarah. “Where’d he go?”

Jareth’s hands were at his throat, and he sucked down air in ragged gasps. “Magic,” he managed.

Sarah scooped up the little music player, whose screen now glowed bright blue. “Seriously? This?”

“A kind of human magic,” said Jareth, his face returning to its normal color. “It can have strange, even fatal effects on beings from the other-worlds.” He pounced on Sacha, pinning the boy’s arms to his sides. “No, you don’t,” he said. Ivanka sat wailing, hands over her face, blood streaming down onto the front of her gold silk dress.

Portia’s right hand went up, and it was as if an invisible football player had slammed into Sarah, knocking her painfully to the tiled floor. She waved her hand again, and Sarah cried out, doubling over, feeling that she’d been kicked in the stomach. Hideous pain flared through her head, down her spine, across her ribs, each blow worse than the last.

Sarah heard Jareth snarl, and the pain lessened. She dragged herself up, trying to haul herself to her feet. Jareth had his sword in hand, Portia dancing just out of the blade’s range. The queen’s left hand swooped down in an odd, flicking gesture.

Jareth screamed, a horrible sound of pure agony, and he dropped where he stood, clutching at his neck. His sword clattered to the floor.

“Hi-yah!” Sir Didymus, his senses restored, charged at the female monarch. She spun to meet his approach, but it was too late: the lance took her straight across the knees, and she toppled to the floor in an ignominious heap.

Sarah didn’t hesitate: she crossed the floor in two swift bounds, grabbing Jareth’s sword. Portia was tangled in the long skirt of her gown, and Sarah didn’t allow her the time to get upright again. With one powerful swing of the sword, she chopped off Portia’s right hand.

The queen screamed, clutching the bloody stump of her wrist, and scrabbled on the tiles for her severed hand. _The ring_. It was the ring she was groping for, the Dragon’s Heart, the enchanted gemstone that manifested her will.

The hand was lying on the floor. Portia and Sarah lunged for it together, but Sarah had youth and greater mobility on her side. She grabbed the severed piece of flesh, yanked off the emerald ring, and slid the band onto the ring finger of her right hand.

A rush of power went through her, the likes of which she’d never known. Clutching Jareth’s sword in her right hand, Sarah drove the blade straight into Portia’s heart.

_Die!_ she thought.

With an unholy banshee wail, the queen vanished in a web of green-white electricity.

Sarah dropped the sword, racing to Jareth’s side. “What’d she do to you?” she babbled.

“Poison,” he grunted. Clutched in his hand was a tiny, feathered dart. A drop of blood trickled down his neck.

“No… oh, no!”

“The twins!” he snarled. “Stop them!”

Sarah whipped about, but too late. Ivanka had her brother by the hand, and they leaped together into the shimmering musical kaleidoscope. The nimbus expanded for a moment, then collapsed in on itself and vanished completely.

(ix)

Sarah didn’t waste time worrying about the twins. Jareth’s chest was heaving, his limbs twitching and convulsing.

“We have to find the antidote!” she babbled.

“No—time!”

“I will find the cure, Your Majesty!” Sir Didymus shouted. “The blood of an infant fairy? Where might I find such a creature?”

“Towers,” Jareth gasped. “They nest in the towers.”

“There’s the stairs,” Sarah realized, pointing across the great hall. “Go, Sir Didymus! Hurry!”

Sir Didymus dropped to all fours, sprinting across the floor and vanishing up the stairs.

“Stay with me,” Sarah begged Jareth, clutching his hand. “Sir Didymus is so fast—if anyone can find an infant fairy, it’s him.”

Jareth’s head shook. “No—time.”

The tears started and wouldn’t stop: exhaustion, pain, and now this new grief. Sarah couldn’t bear it.

Jareth’s armed flailed up, and he grabbed his amulet, pulling it over his head. He placed the thing in Sarah’s hand.

“What?” Sarah whispered through her tears.

“Take it. Rule—after me.”

“No! I can’t do that! I wouldn’t want that—not without you!” The words slipped out before she could stop them.”

He smiled, tired, awareness already fading in his eyes. “Sarah—you were magnificent.”

Weeping, Sarah leaned down and kissed him.

“I love you,” she whispered, but he was already gone.

Sarah sprawled across his chest, crying until her eyes scalded and her throat went raw. Not fair! Oh, not fair! So quickly—everything had happened so damned quickly, and now something precious had been ripped away from her.

Remembering the queen’s ring, Sarah placed her hand on Jareth’s heart and tried to will him back to life. But he didn’t move. Apparently, magic had its limits, or maybe her human mind was too weak to utilize fully the Dragon’s Heart. This frustration made Sarah’s tears start all over again.

Ludo wailed quietly. Apart from that, the castle was silent. Sarah forced herself to stop crying and listen. Jareth had warned about spiders the king and queen had kept as guard dogs, but Sarah had seen no signs of arachnids. Maybe the guard-spiders had died along with everything else here.

She looked down at the amulet in her hands. _Rule after me_. Sarah had no idea how she should do this. Rule a bunch of goblins? Was he joking? And yet, Sarah felt absurdly touched by the strange faith Jareth had had in her, that he would, on his deathbed, name her as his successor. What should she do? She could disregard his request, return to her old life, but the very thought of it seemed so empty now.

Time passed—she had no idea for how long she knelt there, as time had ceased to hold any meaning. The castle grew very cold, and Sarah found her teeth were chattering. She zipped up her coat more tightly, realizing with a tired smile the music player was still in her pocket. Now that Portia and Theridion were dead, the twins gone, and the schism closed, would these artifacts stop falling through time?

She heard a quiet fluttering noise and a muffled squeak. To her amazement, Sir Didymus came running across the throne room floor, something small and brown clutched in his jaws. It looked like a rat.

He came to a skidding halt and dropped the thing at Sarah’s feet. It was perhaps eight inches long, its wings little more than nubs on its back, its eyes squeezed shut. It was so young it was blind, Sarah realized. Its mouth opened and closed, emitting those horrid squeaking noises.

“Sir Didymus, you’re amazing,” said Sarah, her voice dull. “If only you’d been an hour earlier, we might’ve saved him.”

“My lady, it’s been only a quarter-hour,” Sir Didymus responded. “Wilt thou not feed the suckling’s blood to His Majesty?”

“It’s too late,” Sarah choked. “He’s dead.”

Sir Didymus cocked his head to one side, listening. Sarah realized he’d been injured, small pieces of his ears missing, blood matted in his fur.

“Dost thou not hear that?” he inquired.

“Hear what?”

Sir Didymus circled around Jareth’s pale, motionless body. “His heart still beats, my lady.”

Sarah gasped. “But—but—”

“Give him the blood, quickly, my lady! His heart beats slowly and ever more weakly. He hasn’t much time.”

“Ludo, prop him up,” ordered Sarah. The great beast did as she said, and Sarah grabbed the infant fairy by its legs. There was no time to be delicate about this. Sarah drew out the dagger Jareth had given her and slashed the fairy’s throat. She opened Jareth’s mouth with her fingers and pushed the gaping wound between his lips. She held her breath and waited.

Color, barely perceptible, began to return to Jareth’s face. His eyelids twitched and fluttered, then a shuddering spasm went through his frame.

“It’s working,” Sarah whispered. She held the fairy at Jareth’s mouth until the small creature seemed drained, then she tossed the corpse aside. A sacrificial fairy? Sarah’s hands were red with blood, and she wiped them on her jeans. She felt vaguely like some pagan high priestess of ancient legend, performing an arcane bloodletting rite.

Jareth’s chest began to move as his breathing started. Sarah took his hand, feeling for a pulse in the wrist. Beneath her fingertips, she detected a faint throb, fluttering and irregular, but growing stronger with each passing minute.

“Come on,” she whispered. “Come back to me.”

At last his eyes opened. He stared at first up at the ceiling, like he didn’t know where he was, then his fingers tightened around Sarah’s, and he turned his head slightly, toward her. Their eyes met, and the love she saw in his gaze drove pain and pleasure into her heart like shards of glass.

“Sarah,” he rasped, then he grimaced, his expression comically akin to a child being made to eat peas or lima beans. “Fairy blood,” he grumbled, then his eyes went wide with realization.

“You can thank Sir Didymus for that,” she said, crying again, this time from happiness. She slipped the amulet over Jareth’s head.

“Ungh,” he grunted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and Sarah started laughing, laughing and crying at the same time.

Sir Didymus was listening to something, his head turning, ears leaning forward. Ludo had noticed it, too.

“Wocks?” he said.

“Not rocks.” Jareth struggled to sit up on his own. “We must go,” he said, panting slightly.

“You can barely stand up,” Sarah protested.

“No—we must leave. Now!”

Sarah heard it, then, a long, faint, groaning rumble—in the distance, but getting ominously closer.

“What _is_ that?” she asked. “It sounds like—like an earthquake in slow motion, or something.”

“It’s worse than that. Do you still have the Dragon’s Heart?”

“Yes.” Sarah showed him the ring, still on her right hand.

“That will lead us to the gate.” But Jareth was so weak-legged he couldn’t stand.

“Here—Ludo can give you a piggy-back.”

Ludo turned around, getting down on all fours, and Sarah helped push Jareth up onto the gentle creature’s back.

“Hang on,” she told Jareth, tucking his cloak around his shoulders.

“This is undignified,” the Goblin King grumbled.

“Deal with it,” Sarah responded.

“Ludo cawwy Jaweth,” said Ludo happily.

“The exit is this way, my lady,” said Sir Didymus. “Come, Ambrosius.”

They made their way as quickly as possible to the stairs. One flight led up, to the towers where Sir Didymus had found the infant fairy. Another flight led down, to a vast set of double doors that appeared to be locked fast.

“How do we get these to open?” Sarah asked Jareth.

“Use the ring,” he told her.

Sarah held up her right hand, feeling rather foolish. “Open,” she commanded.

The great wooden doors swung outward.

“Cool,” Sarah laughed, feeling giddy and exhausted and afraid, all at once.

The doors opened out onto a large stone causeway. This must have been the castle’s main entrance, Sarah thought, guarded during the city’s heyday. Now of course it was empty, deserted. The causeway led out to a city street, lined with more of those tall buildings.

Overhead, the reddish clouds had thickened, and snow was falling from the sky.

“Brr,” said Sarah, pulling on her hat and gloves. A bitterly cold wind blew through the deserted streets.

They heard that noise again, louder now, a horrible, slow, groaning and grinding.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Glacier,” Jareth provided. He lay more or less flat on Ludo’s broad back, but his eyes were alert, scanning their surroundings. “It’s moving down from the north. “With the queen and her heirs dead, the kingdom is dying.”

A leathery flapping noise filled the air, and Sarah looked up, gasping at the sight of fairies overhead. But the beasts made no effort to hinder the intruders: they seemed to be flying away from something, as quickly as they could.

“They’ll be trying to escape it,” said Jareth. “Flying back into the Gardens. They’ll be able to survive there indefinitely. The spiders will survive in their jungle, too. But Aranea is dead.”

“Aye, Your Majesty,” Sir Didymus provided. “I believe the exodus began upon the deaths of the king and queen. The high towers were mostly deserted, only one she-fairy left, trying to defend her brood. She put up a fair fight, but I snatched away the runt of her litter.”

“I can’t thank you enough for that,” Sarah told him.

“‘Tis nothing, my lady,” the fox responded modestly. “What is the duty of a knight, after all, but to aid and defend his monarch?”

The buildings were beginning to thin out. The snow fell more heavily from the sky, and the loud rumbling noise was drawing ever closer.

At last they were clear of the buildings, standing at the edge of what had once been a pleasant meadow but now was full of dead brown grass and a few skeletal trees.

“Is the grotto there?” asked Jareth, trying to see over Ludo’s shoulders.

“There’s a little… building, or something,” Sarah answered, peering through the snowflakes. The ring on her hand had begun to feel rather warm, and she looked down. “Jareth, the Dragon’s Heart is glowing.”

“That’s it,” he told her. “The ring will lead us to the gate.”

“Everyone, follow me,” Sarah said.

She trooped out across the meadow, through snow that was halfway to her knees. She couldn’t see more than three feet in front of her, but that didn’t matter: the ring told her exactly where she needed to go. Ludo, carrying Jareth, followed behind her, and Sir Didymus brought up the rear, riding Ambrosius.

The wind had grown intolerably cold: it must be blowing straight off the glacier, and Sarah could barely hear anything over the moaning and grinding of the ice as it made its inexorable way toward the Dead City.

The grotto loomed up out of the blizzard, the remains of a lovely shrine: stone, paved with tile. The interior contained only a low altar, set into the floor, also tiled in black and gold. A pair of small, carved spiders guarded the grotto’s entrance, nearly buried in snow. Sarah held up her right hand, and she could see that behind the altar, in the rear wall of the grotto, was a gate, outlined by a thread of gold light.

“Go!” she shouted to Ludo. The glacier sounded like it would be upon the grotto in a matter of minutes.

The beast needed no further encouragement: he lumbered into the grotto and went through the gate. Sir Didymus followed on Ambrosius. Sarah took one last look around, but there was nothing to see: just tile, stone, and whirling snowflakes.

_Good riddance, Aranea_ , she thought, stepping through the wall.

The warmth and quiet came as such a shock that Sarah nearly collapsed. They were standing in Jareth’s throne room. The Goblin King had slid off Ludo’s back, and now a couple of chattering goblin-servants were tending to their abruptly-returned monarch.

**To be continued…**


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is today's third installment. I'll be posting the rest of the story on 12-27-15.

Title: **Semi-Charmed Life**

Author: E.A. Week

E-mail: e.a.week at gmail dot com

Summary: Six years after her adventures in the Labyrinth, Sarah is now a senior in college. When two local children disappear under mysterious circumstances, she immediately suspects Jareth’s hand. But as ever, nothing is what it seems.

Category: _Labyrinth._

Distribution: Feel free to rec or link to this story, but **please** drop me at least a brief e-mail and let me know you've done this.

Feedback: Letters of comment are always welcome! Loved it? Hated it? Leave a review, send me a PM or an email and let me know why!

Disclaimer: Copyrights to all characters in this story belong to their respective creators, production companies, and studios. I’m just borrowing them, honest!

Credit where credit is due: The story title is stolen from Third Eye Blind. Part V title is stolen from REM.

Story rating: This story is rated M (mature/ explicit) for language, sexuality, and adult themes. **NOTE** : Part V contains epic levels of smut. This chapter is not work-safe or child-safe.

**Part V**

_Turn You Inside Out_

Exhaustion hit Sarah like a physical, tangible force. She swayed back and forth, feeling her mind grow dim around the edges. A moment later, Ludo was at her side, preventing her from falling over.

“Sleep is an excellent idea.” Jareth was able to stand at last on his own, but barely. He said, “Ludo and Sir Didymus, I’m granting you the Freedom of the Underground—you’re both free to go anywhere in the Labyrinth you wish.”

“Your Majesty, what a great honor,” Sir Didymus replied.

With an ironic half-grin, Jareth said, “Sir Didymus, I’d knight you if you weren’t knighted already.”

“My only request is nourishment for my faithful steed and myself, Your Majesty.”

Jareth ordered the goblin servants, “Give Sir Didymus, Ambrosius, and Ludo anything they wish. Anyone who disobeys will spend a year in the Bog of Eternal Stench.”

“Yes, Your Majesty!” the goblin-servants shrieked, and they raced off to the kitchens, tripping over each other in their haste to carry out Jareth’s wishes. Ludo, Ambrosius, and Sir Didymus ambled out of the throne room and followed the goblins down the corridor.

Jareth held out a hand to Sarah, and she took his arm without hesitation. Funny how even just a day or two earlier this intimacy would have been unthinkable; she’d been so guarded, and now those prickly barriers seemed so trivial. He led her up—and up—a flight of spiral steps. Sarah was ready to collapse by the time they reached the top.

Of course he would have his quarters in the castle’s highest tower. Sarah went to one of the graceful windows—there were five altogether—finding, as she expected, that the view out over the Labyrinth was spectacular. The western sky was painted purple; dusk was settling over the Underground.

Jareth had furnished his room with heavy, dark furniture, all of it carved of wood—black walnut?—that gleamed with a rich luster. A huge old-fashioned armoire stood against one wall, a couple of drawers slightly open. Sarah caught a glimpse of clothes: a ruffled shirtsleeve, a fold of gray silk.

The bed was massive, big enough for five people to sleep in comfortably, the headboard and footboard things of astonishing craftsmanship. Fantastic designs had been carved into the wood. Sarah thought how different everything here looked compared to the palace of Aranea. Jareth’s world was less opulent, lacking in gemstones and precious metals. Everything looked older, darker, more roughly-hewn. But Sarah decided she liked it better. Goblins were less refined, she thought, but at least you knew where you stood with them.

“Bathroom?” she asked.

Jareth pointed with his right hand, covering a yawn with his left.

The lavatory was lavish, tiled in terra-cotta and gleaming with brass fixtures. The sink was a large marble basin, water gushing out from a pair of faucets in the shape of miniature brass goblins. There was a large sunken tub, also of marble. The toilet was behind a screen in one corner, the seat so cold Sarah nearly yelped when she sat on it. To flush, she pulled a long, brass chain. She wondered where the waste went—the Bog of Eternal Stench?

She filled the sink and washed her face with Jareth’s soap, a bar of handmade stuff that produced a thick lather and smelled faintly of almonds. He even had a peculiar toothbrush, a wooden handle set with stiff bristles (Sarah tried not to think where the bristles had come from). Since he didn’t have a spare, Sarah used his, dipping the brush into an earthenware dish full of salt and soda. Getting her teeth clean felt marvelous, and it pleased her inordinately to see that Jareth was ill-equipped for the presence of an overnight guest.

Finally, she dried her face on a thick, soft towel that appeared to have been hand-loomed. Jareth evidently believed in pampering himself.

Out in the room, Jareth had undressed completely, his clothes strewn over a large chair, and he was already in bed, nearly asleep by the look of things. In the stone fireplace, a small blaze crackled. Sarah was famished, but sleep was her most pressing need. Food would have to wait until later. Wearily she stripped, throwing her clothes across a different chair. She twisted off Portia’s ring and dropped it onto Jareth’s table: the thing possessed tremendous magical power, and he could decide what to do with it.

Her own lack of inhibition startled her, but it was as if Sarah had already made up her mind. She climbed up into the big bed and slid between the sheets, marveling at the cool, smooth texture. Silk? Cotton? Jareth half-groaned, a funny, sleepy sound, turning toward her. Something metallic knocked into her sternum: his amulet. Jareth apparently never removed it.

Sarah slid her arms around him, and they managed a couple of tired kisses. She laughed: they’d both been waiting so long for this moment, and now they were too exhausted to do anything about it. Sarah _hurt_ ; she was bone-tired, aching in every nerve, every fiber. Already darkness was rising up her mind. She turned over onto her other side, spooning her bottom into Jareth’s lap. He draped one arm across her hip and pressed his face into her hair. Within moments, Sarah was spiraling down toward the bliss of slumber.

She was still floating in that lovely space between full wakefulness and true sleep when Jareth murmured,

“I love you, Sarah.”

Without opening her eyes, she smiled and said, “I heard that.”

(ii)

When she awoke later, the sky outside the tower windows was inky black, strewn with blurry crushed-diamond starlight. A sickle moon hovered over the Labyrinth walls. In the hearth, the fire still burned, and tall candles had been lit on the table. Beside her, Jareth slept deeply, almost motionless. Perhaps he needed to sleep off any lingering effects of the poison.

Taking care not to disturb him, Sarah slipped out of the bed and padded into the bathroom. She saw to her surprise the tub had been filled with water, towels and soap set out. A brazier full of hot coals warmed the small space. After relieving herself, Sarah braided her hair and tied it into a knot, then lowered herself into the water. The pleasure was so astonishing she felt like laughing or singing. Afraid she’d fall asleep if she lingered too long, Sarah scrubbed herself clean and got out of the tub. She could wash her hair later; right now she didn’t want to go back to bed with sopping wet hair. After toweling dry, she returned to bed and fell asleep right away.

The next time she awoke, it was nearly dawn. Food had been set out on the table, an odd mixture of cracked walnuts, dark bread, honey, and fruit. A typical goblin breakfast? Jareth was sound asleep now, but it looked like he’d been awake earlier: there was an earthenware plate with crumbs. Sarah sliced off a piece of bread and spread it with honey, eating it with some grapes, a pear, and a handful of walnuts. To drink, there was a pitcher of water, cold and shockingly clean—the way water _should_ taste, untreated by chemicals. After another visit to the loo, she crawled back into bed, feeling like she could sleep forever.

She awoke some time later, drifting into pleasant awareness. It must be high noon: daylight flooded the tower room. Sarah stretched, enjoying the luxury of the sheets against her skin. Most of the aches in her limbs had faded, leaving only a residual tiredness.

Sarah turned to find Jareth propped on one elbow, looking at her with a serious, contemplative expression.

“Hey,” she smiled, reaching out to caress his face. He closed his eyes, enjoying her touch. “Sleep well?”

“Passably,” he said. “The poison causes nightmares.”

“Not fun,” Sarah shivered.

“No... but then I’d wake and see you, and somehow it was more bearable.”

“You’re shameless,” she teased.

“It’s the truth.” Jareth toyed with a strand of Sarah’s hair. She saw he’d clipped and filed back his claws. Had he done this during the night, in a spell of poison-induced insomnia?

She took his hand, kissed it. “Can I ask you something?”

“I’m beeswax in your hands, Sarah,” he chuckled. “Ask me anything.”

“Was Theridion telling the truth when he said you couldn’t stop thinking about me?”

Jareth laughed. “He only left out the bit where I dreamed about you every night, too.” He slipped his hand beneath the sheet, stroking Sarah’s shoulder, her breast, down her ribcage to her hip and thigh. Sarah’s skin broke out in shuddering gooseflesh. “And you?” he teased. “Was Portia right? Did you dream about me, Sarah?”

“All the time,” she flushed. She thought about the occasion when, sixteen and desperately horny, she’d acquired her first vibrator. In a moment of mordant humor, she’d named the thing Jareth. Back then, it had been easier to fantasize about him. That had grown trickier when actual boyfriends had been involved, but Sarah had nevertheless found a way. Mostly she’d just closed her eyes and allowed her imagination free rein.

Jareth sighed. He turned the amulet around so that it hung down his back, flat between his shoulder blades. He drew Sarah to him, and they eased against each other’s bodies. Sarah felt giddy at how perfectly they fit together: shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, knee to knee. She snaked her arms around his torso, and he clasped her against him tightly. At first they didn’t even kiss, just lay learning the texture of each other’s skin, inhaling each other’s scent. Finally, Jareth drew back slightly, kissing Sarah’s forehead, her nose, her mouth.

The kiss went on at the same leisurely pace: their tongues met, touching, exploring each other’s mouths. Part of Sarah’s mind marveled at the slowness. Surely the years of pent-up longing would demand swiftness, urgency. But time was a luxury they had now in abundance, and Jareth certainly seemed to want to linger over this encounter, to savor every tiny moment.

Her hands explored him, equally unhurried. Jareth was lean, taut, subtly muscled, as lithe and graceful as a dancer. Sarah marveled over every inch of his skin, pale and smooth and remarkably warm. His scent was a lovely, light musk, his hair thick and fine, unbearably soft. She laughed, reveling in the reactions that her lips and fingers provoked, and he likewise laughed at her responses to his exploration of her body. Their laughter was easy, unfettered, in some ways the most remarkable sensation of all.

Sarah held her breath when his wet kisses trailed a searing path between her breasts and down across her belly. His hands were on her thighs, and she parted her legs, gasping at his touch. She felt the wet suction of his mouth on the inside of her thigh; then, he opened her folds with his thumbs and began pleasuring her with his tongue. Sarah groaned low in her throat, lacing her fingers through his hair, arching her neck, willing the sensation to go on and never end. Jareth went at her with his tongue and teeth: flicking, licking, nibbling, until she reached the pinnacle of pleasure, crying out and arching her back.

“Jareth—please!”

He worked his way back up, lingering over each breast, caressing the soft, creamy skin, sucking on each hard, pointed nipple. Up over her collarbone to her neck and ear, along her jawline, and finally to her mouth. Sarah wondered dimly how he could hold out for so long. She slid her hands down his torso, groping between his legs, and Jareth let out a long, low sigh, then groaned louder as Sarah’s skilled fingers got to work.

“Oh, Sarah,” he whispered, eyes half-closed.

Sarah shifted beneath Jareth, arching her back up, using her hands to help guide him. He pushed inside her, the pleasure so shocking they both cried out, grasping desperately at each other with sweaty hands. There was little finesse or control at first: they thrust wildly, swamped with insatiable passion, striving to find their rhythm. Sarah’s insides were slick, slippery with desire, and the sensation of Jareth’s turgid cock pushing and pulling, his hips undulating with hers, drove her out of her mind. She tightened her arms and legs around him, trying to devour all of him at once.

Climax was a stunning rush, a hard wave of cramp and release, cramp and release, knocking the breath out of her. Sarah didn’t try to fight it, giving in to the ecstasy, letting it consume her. She’d never come like that before, never let all of herself go at once. She surrendered to Jareth, letting him possess her, feeling his presence in her very soul, like a seething, dark flame. As if from far away, she heard herself half-weeping, calling Jareth’s name again and again as the waves of pleasure wracked through her. She was barely aware when Jareth heaved a mighty shudder and gave in at last to his own release, crying out, “Sarah, Sarah!” as his fiery wetness spurted deep inside her.

(iii)

Sarah came back to awareness in gradual degrees. She throbbed with pleasure, every filament of her body wondrously alive. Sighing, she turned over to find Jareth stretched out beside her. Instead of appearing smug, as she expected, he looked contemplative, almost sad.

“We didn’t wreck the bed,” she smiled. “Amazing.”

He grinned back, reaching over to touch her face. How beautiful he appeared in the full sunlight: long, slim, very pale.

Sarah leaned over and kissed him. “Why the solemn face?”

“Thinking about Portia and Theridion.”

“Ugh. There’s a mood-killer.”

“Because of how like them I’d grown.”

“Oh, please,” said Sarah.

“They barricaded themselves behind castle walls. I barricaded myself in the Labyrinth, for the same reason: to spare myself pain. Their fortress was literal, mine was metaphorical, but no less impregnable. Or so I thought.” Jareth played with her hair. “Until you completely breached my defenses.”

“Pretty profound analysis, Dr. Freud.”

“Will you please stop mocking me? I’m trying to bare my soul to you, Sarah.”

“Irreverence is my fortress, Jareth. Hadn’t you noticed?”

He looked miffed, then he chuckled and drew her into his arms. After a deep, wet kiss, Jareth grumbled, “So, I find myself with the choice of being like them forever, or admitting a need for you.”

Sarah laughed, “What, loosing control over the situation?”

He looked both mortified and disgruntled.

“Here’s the funny thing, though,” she said. “You can’t love someone without giving up a little control. I just learned that, about five minutes ago.”

“Did you?” he murmured, nuzzling her.

“You didn’t notice?” she laughed. Then she said, “Portia and Theridion were right about me. I was pretty wrapped up with my own self-preservation.”

“So, what changed your mind?” Jareth asked.

“Almost losing you.”

“I should try dying more often, then.” He leaned in, and they kissed again.

Sarah didn’t tell him it was more than that, though—seeing him outside his comfort zone, watching him fight for something, learning about his past—all those things had changed her perception of him. The other factor had been realizing the extent of his feelings for her—a love that went far beyond lust or obsession.

They drew apart after a moment, and Sarah said, “Was your mother human?”

Jareth gave her a look, and Sarah goosed his ribs. “You survived the spider venom long enough for us to find the cure. And why else would Portia call you a half-breed? Plus, ‘family weakness for humans.’” She slid her hand down his beautifully-shaped thigh. “You’re more human than any goblin in the Labyrinth. Certainly a lot more human than your father was.”

He sighed, “Since you’ve already applied your flawless logic, the answer is yes.”

“Did your mother _marry_ Raedwald? A goblin?”

“She didn’t realize it at first,” Jareth said. “Raedwald had a unique ability—very rare, even for a Goblin King. He could assume the form of any living creature.”

“Any?” repeated Sarah.

“From a mosquito to a bear. You’ve seen me transform into an owl—it’s the only way I can enter your world without being summoned. But that’s the only form I can take. Raedwald could take any form.”

“Including human?”

“He happened across a beautiful woman—your kind was much younger and existed more harmoniously with magic, then. It was real to them, part of their world, not something to be shunned or feared. He took the form of a handsome youth, so that he could court the woman and lay with her.”

“Did she find out the truth?”

“Only when she realized she was expecting a child.” Sarah had a sense that Jareth was editing out some key detail, but this story of his conception still fascinated her. “Then Raedwald revealed himself, his true nature. She agreed to come here, to be his queen. Nine months later, I was born.”

Sarah kissed his forehead. “The world has never been the same.”

“Now who’s shameless?” he teased.

Sarah asked, “Was he disappointed with you? Was he expecting more of a goblin?”

“He was so thrilled to have an heir, I don’t think he cared how I looked. I knew I was different from other goblins, but since I was raised here, I always thought of myself as one of them.”

Sarah asked, “Were you happy? Did your parents love you?”

The skin around Jareth’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. “Is that important to you, Sarah?”

“Just curious,” she said. “Humor me.”

“They adored me. There never was a more beloved child. Raedwald told me constantly how clever I was, how gifted. Magic came to me as easily as breathing. My mother was full of pride at her beautiful child, and told me so every day. For fifteen years, I was as spoiled and cosseted as you can imagine.”

“And then it ended.”

“Raedwald had lost status in the Seven Kingdoms for taking a human bride, but my birth gave him the chance to restore his standing. Portia had borne two daughters while I was still a child. It had become well-known that I was gifted and beautiful. Raedwald took me around and presented me to all the monarchs, and Portia suggested a match.”

“Is it customary in the Seven Kingdoms to have more than one wife? Or husband?” asked Sarah.

“Sometimes,” Jareth said. “Portia mainly didn’t want her daughters to be separated. The agreement was that my first-born daughter would return to rule Aranea when she came of age, and my first-born son would succeed me as King of the Goblins.”

Sarah felt selfishly glad that none of this had ever come to pass. “But your father was too greedy to keep to the original terms?”

“He was a goblin,” Jareth shrugged. “Of course he’d to try to swindle them. And they knew it.”

Sarah exclaimed, “They wanted an excuse to kill him?”

Jareth smiled, tight and cynical. “Magically, he was the most powerful creature in the Seven Kingdoms. The other monarchs, in their own way, all feared him. He was far more powerful magically than either Penrith, his father, or Octha, his grandfather. And he was a goblin, so naturally he couldn’t be trusted. Theridion and Portia were waiting for a chance to destroy him. Think what it’s like among you humans, when someone of low status starts to gain power. What’s the usual response?”

“Persecution,” Sarah murmured, thinking of the darker chapters of human history.

“Raedwald couldn’t be allowed to become more powerful than the other monarchs, but he was too full of hubris to believe they’d assassinate him. That was his downfall.”

Sarah shook her head. “I’m sorry you lost your father,” she said. “You were only a child. That must’ve been horrible.”

“That wasn’t the worst of it,” Jareth told her. “Theridion and Portia sent me back to the Underground in humiliation, which forced me to break the news to my mother.”

“Shit,” Sarah whispered. “What’d she do?”

“She summoned Pontifex Mynoskyrka at once and had me invested as the new king. There was a tremendous celebration.” Jareth barked a short laugh. “None of the goblins, of course, cared that their monarch of fifteen centuries had been murdered.”

“Any excuse for a party,” Sarah grinned. “Sounds like college students.”

“It was a while before I noticed my mother was missing. I went looking and found her on the parapets. She’d used one of Raedwald’s daggers to end her life.”

“Oh, no!” Sarah winced. “That’s awful.”

Jareth didn’t appear to feel sorry for himself. Sarah thought that at least now she understood his reasons for walling himself up.

“What about the other five monarchs?” she asked. “Do you ever have to deal with them?”

“They avoid me, mostly—the half-goblin, half-human pariah.”

“So, nobody else was in a hurry to have you marry one of their daughters,” Sarah said.

“Not bloody likely,” Jareth snorted.

Sarah teased, “Have you had many lovers?” He raised a curved eyebrow, and Sarah caressed low down on his belly with her hand. “I’m assuming you developed your epic stamina somewhere.”

“You cheeky lass,” Jareth breathed, pulling her into his arms and treating her to a long, passionate kiss. “And oh, so naughty for thinking such impure thoughts.”

“Jareth, you’re an impure thought made flesh,” Sarah chuckled. They nuzzled each other, and after a few moments, she asked, “Seriously… why me? Of all the millions of women on Earth, you fixate on me? Dorky Sarah Williams? You couldn’t have picked… oh, I don’t know. Madame de Pompadour? Cleopatra? Marilyn Monroe?”

“Marilyn Monroe was neurotic; Madame de Pompadour was frigid; and Cleopatra had head lice.”

“Oh, hey, that makes me feel extra-special,” Sarah joked.

Jareth grinned. “You were a child when I first saw you. You’d gone to that grassy place you liked so much.”

“The park?” Sarah guessed.

“I was flying past and had stopped to rest. And you were there, with your canine. He was half-grown, still a pup. You were crying about something. I felt the anger and jealousy and resentment coming off you, so I stayed to watch, thinking you might make a wish. You lifted your head, and I saw your face…” Jareth trailed off.

“That must’ve been the day my father told me he was getting married,” Sarah recalled. Even now, the memory caused a spasm of pain. She poked Jareth. “I was eleven, you pervert.”

“Years are the blink of an eye to me, Sarah. In no time at all, you’d have been old enough.” His fingertips trailed down her cheek. “I’d never seen a face so lovely—such pale skin, such dark hair, such green eyes—” He leaned in for another kiss. “A face designed by witchcraft. And you were ripe for making wishes. Such an imagination!”

Sarah stared up at the ceiling, remembering that day too well. “I was a lot like you,” she said. “Spoiled rotten, the princess, the apple of my parents’ eyes. Even after they divorced, I still got all their attention—more, in a way, because they both felt so guilty. Then my father married Irene, and I had to share him with someone else.”

“I kept watch over you. When your brother was born, everything was perfect. All the pieces were in place.”

“God, I _hated_ him,” Sarah laughed. “Hated all the attention he got—and how I was suddenly expected to be a grown-up, to help take care of him. It felt like everything that was wonderful in my life had been taken away from me, and everyone expected me to be completely okay with that.”

“I know,” said Jareth. “I remember.”

“I wanted to be a kid forever, always have people taking care of me, paying me attention, putting me first.”

“You could have had all that, and more,” Jareth told her softly. “If you’d stayed here with me.”

“It wasn’t _good_ , though,” Sarah countered. “I’d never have grown up. I’d have been like Sacha and Ivanka—a monster.”

“I’d have given you anything, Sarah. Put the moon and stars at your feet.”

“At too high a price.”

“And now?” Jareth challenged.

“Now is different. I’m an adult, not a child. I know my own mind.” Sarah kissed the bridge of his nose. “Why didn’t you force me to stay? You could have. I was trapped here. Why didn’t you keep me?”

“You were too young,” Jareth huffed. “I do have some scruples, you know.”

“Yeah, right!” Sarah laughed. “Girls have been married off at younger ages than fifteen, Jareth!”

He answered, “Because you wouldn’t give up on your own. You wouldn’t admit defeat.”

It was his pride, Sarah realized. She would have had to surrender voluntarily for Jareth to consider it a victory. His ego wouldn’t allow him to believe there was a woman alive who wouldn’t be with him willingly.

They kissed again, and for a few moments, Sarah’s mind was so pleasantly muzzy that she lost the thread of conversation. But the physical contact prodded her thoughts down another avenue, and one of her long-standing vague suspicions about Jareth coalesced and took sudden, specific form in her mind.

“You cad!” she sputtered, drawing away from him.

“What?” he laughed.

“Toby… getting me to make that wish… kidnapping Toby… he was just bait, wasn’t he? To get me into the Labyrinth!”

Jareth looked positively delighted. “You’re slipping, Sarah.”

“All to lure me… because you had the hots for me!”

“Oh, yes,” he whispered, nuzzling her face. “You were supposed to have given up. And then I’d have offered to send Toby back home, if you would agree to stay here with me, forever.” After another knee-melting kiss, Jareth said, “And you would have been mine.”

“Your child bride,” Sarah muttered. His lips were on her neck, and Sarah experienced a perverse thrill at having thwarted him for so long. _Good God!_ she thought. That ball gown must have been the dress he was expecting her to wear for their wedding. Had he created the dress himself—that ruffled, girly, frou-frou concoction? Sarah burst into raucous laughter.

“Oh, stop,” Jareth complained. “You do know how to kill a mood, don’t you?”

“Can I just say how happy I am that I never played Lolita to your Humbert Humbert?”

Jareth was squeezing her breasts. “And more’s the pity.” Sarah couldn’t tell if he understood the literary reference.

“I’m sure you had the flowers, catering, and photographer all ready to go. You must’ve lost a small fortune in deposit fees.”

Jareth ignored her irreverence, turning onto his back, arching and stretching like a cat.

“Seriously, why didn’t you just… approach me normally? Why all the subterfuge? Besides, obviously, stacking the deck in your favor?”

With a quiet rumble of laughter, Jareth said, “Think how you’d have reacted to that, Sarah. A strange being appears out of nowhere, declares his undying love for you, and offers to take you away to a magical kingdom. Forever. How else was I supposed to approach you?”

“You wanted the challenge,” accused Sarah. “It wouldn’t have been as much fun if you didn’t feel like you were winning some kind of game.”

“For all the good it did me,” Jareth snorted. “You’re the only human who ever solved the Labyrinth. You did one thing nobody else had ever done.”

Sarah blinked. “Really, what?”

“Made friends and got them to help you.”

“That wasn’t... breaking some kind of rule?”

“The Labyrinth has no rules. Once you’re in the field of play, you can use any means at your disposal. You befriended three creatures and used a different kind of persuasion on each one of them. They were willing to risk their own safety and lives to help you. Most creatures here are self-serving, only interested in their own pleasures, or just keeping out of my way, so that was no easy feat.”

“Poor Hoggle,” Sarah muttered. “God, I was such a wretch with him.” She said, “He told me about his childhood, and how his sister wished him away to the Labyrinth. Why’d you keep him here?”

“Because that’s how it works. I don’t go back on wishes I grant.”

“Hoggle never did anything to deserve that!”

Jareth said, “Hoggle had a far happier life here than he ever did in that squalid pigsty he called home. In the Underground, he had his own cottage, and he could hunt fairies, fish all day, and collect trinkets to his little heart’s content. It certainly was better than the world where his father beat him, his mother shunned him, and his siblings tormented him.”

“So, what, you were doing him a favor?”

“He belonged here,” said Jareth. “He was one misfit, one oddity among many.”

“Why’d you have to be so mean to him?” asked Sarah, indignant on her late friend’s behalf. “He never did anything to you! Why’d you hate him so much?”

Turning his head toward her, Jareth said, “You don’t know the answer to that? You can’t even guess?”

“Because you’re a despot and a bully?”

“That’s the easy answer, isn’t it? The truth—the sad truth, Sarah—is that I hated him because looking at him was like looking at a reflection of myself. The way he looked at you was the way I looked at you. Wanting something I could never have.”

A smile turned up the corners of Sarah’s mouth. “Poor Jareth,” she taunted. “The handsome, all-powerful Goblin King, reduced to the level of a homely little dwarf.”

“You do have that effect,” Jareth sighed.

“Would you have saved him if you could have?”

Jareth grumbled, “If it had been within my power, I would have saved his miserable hide, yes. Anything to please you, Sarah. I hated him, but I would have saved him, for your sake.”

Sarah stared down into his face, trying to determine if he were telling the truth. He gazed back up at her, his eyes full of naked honesty. At last she nodded, satisfied. Sarah turned, easing herself down on top of him. They kissed, and Sarah began running her fingers up and down his torso in a silky, languid pattern.

“Mmhmm,” Jareth sighed. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

Sarah sat upright, straddling his hips with her legs. “I’ll think about it.”

(iv)

They sat together in the bathtub, soaking in hot water. They’d scrubbed each other’s hair, and now they relaxed, Sarah leaning back against Jareth. His long hands roamed up and down, as if he couldn’t have enough of her. He held her breasts in his hands, enjoying their pleasant, substantial weight, his thumbs tweaking the nipples.

“You like those?” Sarah grinned.

“They’re very _distracting_ ,” Jareth responded. His hands slid down, across her belly and between her thighs. Sarah guided his fingers, showing him what she most enjoyed.

“Aren’t you glad to have the experienced woman rather than the naïve girl?” she asked some time later.

“Hmm.” He nuzzled the back of her wet hair. “There’s something to be said for experience.”

Sarah ran her hand from his thigh to his ankle, gently caressing the calf, her thumb tracing the sensitive semicircle behind his knee. She heard the shift in Jareth’s breathing. She asked, “Why the gloves? Why do you keep your nails filed down like that?” She’d discovered his toes had the same claws as his fingers.

“Try putting on clothes with a set of claws that shred fabric to ribbons,” Jareth snorted. “Try doing _anything_ with claws. They don’t retract. They grow and grow until they turn under and start digging into my fingertips. Can’t even scratch my own nose without slicing it half off.”

Sarah burst out laughing. “Why don’t the other goblins cut theirs?”

“They have tougher hides. Besides, they almost never change clothes. Why should they? Cleanliness isn’t a goblin priority.”

“It is for you,” Sarah teased.

“I’d rather be spared my own reek.”

“So, why the gloves?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“No, I won’t.”

“I sunburn easily.”

“Well, there’s a pair of us,” grinned Sarah. And here she thought the gloves might represent some kind of profound psychological self-loathing. Jareth was too supremely confident for petty neuroses, and he seemed to have made peace with his dual heritage. There was no question he considered himself a goblin—a goblin in a human body.

“I trust they haven’t presented you with any... difficulties today?” Jareth breathed.

“What, the claws? Just keep them filed, and we’re good to go.” Sarah pressed more closely against Jareth, and he groaned with pleasure. “And someone else is good to go, too.”

(iv)

“Jareth... what do you think happened to Sacha and Ivanka?”

“Who knows?” Jareth said. “They could be anywhere... or any- _when_.”

They’d dragged one of Jareth’s big chairs over to a west-facing window, and they sat in a square of afternoon sun, so that their hair could finish drying. Jareth had conjured a small feast for them that consisted almost entirely of nuts and fruit. There was also an odd, chewy grain that had been cooked to pulpy softness and sweetened with honey. The dish was warm and filling, but the flavor took some getting used to. And there was wine—light, sweet, and delicious, the best Sarah had ever tasted. She drank three goblets of it.

Sarah sighed, turning a bit. She was in Jareth’s lap, her weight scarcely seeming to register with him. He wore only his fine black leggings. Sarah wore a simple floor-length shift made of nearly transparent white silk, long-sleeved, the bodice skin-tight and cut immodestly low. Evidently, this was Jareth’s idea of lingerie; he’d had the garment in his armoire, as if in anticipation of this day. _Well, he’s easy to please_.

“That cloud... thing... the twins were staring into—what was it? Where’d it go?”

“It was a rupture... a fracture in time. When the twins went through it, somehow it closed.” Jareth spoke slowly, his expression abstract. “I’d never seen anything like it. The twins could have gone anywhere in both time and space.”

“Even before they were kidnapped, I noticed they both made me feel uncomfortable. With Ivanka, it was like something was crawling on me, like fire ants. With Sacha, I’d just go numb.”

“They both had innate abilities they’d inherited through their parents. Magic, in its most basic form, is a manifestation of will. Sacha and Ivanka could project their will outward, as a physical force. For a human, that’s a rare gift. Ivanka caused pain. Sacha caused total sensory deprivation. There was an interesting difference between the two of them—did you notice it?”

Sarah shook her head.

“Ivanka could only torment one victim at a time. Her brother could affect multiple victims.”

Sarah pretended to smack her forehead. “I _had_ noticed that,” she said. “Just not consciously. It’s hard to make logical deductions when a creepy little girl is torturing you with her eyes.”

“And when I disrupted their vision, I disrupted their ability,” Jareth said. “They needed to be able to focus visually to manifest their will.”

“So, looking into that cloud made their abilities stronger? They were pulling energy from it?”

“And growing more powerful by the moment.”

“What I don’t get is why Portia and Theridion thought having the twins would make a difference,” Sarah frowned. “It’s not like they had anyone left to rule over.” Realization dawned on her as she spoke. “They were planning to conquer the other kingdoms, weren’t they?”

Jareth said, “With the walls between the worlds breaking down, Portia and Theridion could have passed between the realms at will. The twins at full strength would have given them a formidable weapon.”

Sarah shivered; she didn’t want to think of Theridion and Portia wreaking havoc in her own world. “I’m so glad they’re gone.”

Jareth kissed her. “You killed them both—ancient beings with near-limitless power. That was impressive. I liked seeing that side of you—beautiful and ruthless.”

Sarah laughed, shaking her head. “I should feel guilty... but I don’t.” She burrowed into Jareth’s chest. “They were hurting you. I hated them for that.” Then she blurted out, “Why’d you ask me to rule after you?”

“You’re the only one with sufficient willpower.” He drew a fingertip down her spine, causing Sarah to break out in delicious gooseflesh. “Who else would it be?”

Sarah went very warm, and she tightened her arms around him.

“Well, wherever the twins are now, I hope they can’t do any damage.”

“Perhaps.” Jareth sounded abstract again. He didn’t say anything more, and Sarah wondered if he knew more than he was letting on.

(v)

Night was descending over the Underground, dusky and purple, softer than velvet, bringing with it the cries of strange birds and the rough yells of goblins, the harsh twang of goblin-music from their hovels and taverns.

In the high tower room, candles burned, the yellow flames bobbing in the warm evening breeze, casting shadows that flickered and danced across the stone walls. On this night of pure enchantment, the dark shapes cast by the heavy furniture seemed alive, supernatural creatures that had sprung into spontaneous existence, beings that would live only for hours before dying at dawn’s first light.

Sarah paid no heed to night birds or goblin-song or dancing shadows. She knew only the ecstasy of the moment, the pleasure of her own body, entwined with Jareth’s, striving together.

He hadn’t removed the silk gown, pushing the skirt up around her hips, which somehow seemed more tantalizing than full nakedness. With even slightest movement, the silk of the tight bodice would rasp across her hard nipples, a constant, erotic itch. Jareth was taking his time, maddeningly slow, teasing and taunting her. Sarah had her legs locked around his waist, her arms around his shoulders, one hand clutching his amulet almost in convulsions. Her breath came in hard gasps, heart pounding a furious thump against her ribs. Jareth’s hands clasped her bottom, pulling her hips up to his in a slow, delicious rhythm. She could feel his lips curving into a wicked smile as he sucked on her neck, strands of his hair tickling and brushing across her face.

Every fiber of Sarah’s body throbbed and ached, yearning for release, but Jareth wouldn’t permit this, either by magical means or his own vast skill, so that she hovered in a state of intense arousal. She used every trick in her repertoire to urge him along, but he was relentless, implacable, and some small, dim thinking corner of Sarah’s mind recognized this as payback for all the years she’d thwarted him.

“Jareth,” she gasped.

“Yes, love?” he chuckled.

“You bastard,” she groaned.

His lips trailed wet kisses from her jawline to her chin. “You could try the magic word, you know,” he taunted.

Sarah groaned again. She closed her eyes, gasping, fairly mesmerized by the thrusting rhythm. For a while longer, she writhed and cried out and thrashed, as if caught in the hopeless grip of unbearable lust. Jareth’s laughter was like a ripple of dark water.

“Oh, yes, Sarah,” he whispered. “Oh, yes!”

With a shuddering gasp, Sarah cried out, “Jareth… please, Jareth!”

He began moving faster, faster, and Sarah nearly shrieked, beating his back with her fists, pushing hard against him, as waves of release finally shattered over her, sending her spiraling down into a mysterious pool, deep and indigo. The surface churned, tumultuous, but here in the depths, all was quiet and still, the peaceful serenity of an inner world. From far above, she could hear Jareth, calling her name, but this was her own space, inviolate, and Jareth, for all his wiles, could not intrude.

(vi)

The world outside had grown inky black again. Sarah stirred, murmuring to herself, turning onto her side with a sigh. As she did, she felt the lovely, slippery wetness between her legs. She was drained, utterly spent, every inch of her body tender and well-used.

When she opened her eyes, she found Jareth lying on his back, staring up at the stone ceiling, looking weary, close to dejected. He was red about the mouth, lips swollen, his flaccid maleness still glistening from Sarah’s arousal. No man, under these circumstances, should appear so lost, so bereft.

Sarah kissed his shoulder. “I hate to indulge in the oldest cliché of pillow talk, but was that not good for you?”

“You clever vixen.” He smiled slightly, shaking his head, not at her but at himself. “Again and again, you frustrate me.”

“What is it you want?” asked Sarah, though she knew. “What part of that mind-blowing sex wasn’t enough for you?”

“I want to possess you,” he said, his voice low. “To feel you become part of me so utterly that…”

“That what?” she prompted. “That I become part of you?”

“That your will bends to mine,” he sighed. “For a moment, you almost had me convinced I could break that steely self-possession… and then you outwitted me yet again.”

Sarah shook her head. “Then I’d be a puppet, a plaything,” she said. “If I can’t challenge you, there’s no excitement, no friction, no nothing. You might as well have an animated life-sized doll, if you don’t want me having any free will of my own.” She tapped her forehead. “ _This_ is what you like, Jareth. This is the thing that turns you on. All the rest is just window dressing.”

“You think I haven’t realized that?” he snorted. “The irony hasn’t escaped me—if I break your will, the _you_ that I crave would no longer exist.”

“And then you’d be right back to wanting something you can’t have. Why can’t you be happy with what you _do_ have?”

Jareth rumbled with laughter. “And here, I always laughed at humans for never being satisfied.” Then he asked, sounding more than a little uncertain, “I do have you, Sarah, don’t I?”

Sarah glanced comically down at herself: the rumpled silk dress, now streaked with stains and damp with sweat, her crazy hair, her flushed skin.

“Looks like it,” she smiled.

Jareth caught her in his arms and pulled her on top of him. “My beautiful, elusive, maddening Sarah,” he murmured. “Will you always confound me so?”

“Oh, probably,” she laughed, and she angled in for another divine kiss.

(vii)

At midnight, Sarah heard the deep tolling of a bell, the clock tower in the center of the goblin city. She counted: thirteen peals.

Beside her, Jareth slept, a kind of deep, saturated slumber. For the moment, he seemed to have given up trying to rule her. She smiled: since their very first encounter, he’d tried fear, he’d tried intimidation and bullying, he’d tried persuasion and flattery, he’d tried sexual teasing. And always, Sarah had outwitted him and triumphed. She wondered if it would always be this way between them: him trying to make her his creature; her never giving him that satisfaction.

Did it have to be a game with him? A game only he could win? Sarah fretted about this for a while. Did he have no capacity for genuine, unselfish love? She sighed. _Hell, even a lot of humans have trouble with that one. I can’t imagine it’s any easier for a goblin_. She knew that on some very real, basic level, Jareth loved her. Possibly he’d never loved another being in his existence—certainly not the way he loved her, so passionate, so all-consuming.   But did he love her enough to overcome his inherent goblin nature—selfish and self-serving?

Sarah rubbed her forehead. _Of all the guys to fall head over heels with…_ The truly horrible thing was that she knew she’d never love anyone else like this. In the past day, she’d felt more alive than she had in all her twenty-two years. She stared at Jareth, watching him sleep. _I can give you my love_ , she thought. _I can pleasure you sexually. But I won’t let you rule me. If my mind isn’t my own, than what am I?_

Something else troubled her, also, a small but obvious detail that she couldn’t bring to the forefront of her thoughts. She knew it was in there, something Jareth had said that Sarah had filed in the back of her mind and now couldn’t retrieve. She tried to recall the specifics of their converstations since waking up at noon, but those memories were indistinct, out of focus, like a watercolor or an Impressionist painting. Damn, damn, damn: why did great sex have to mess with memory like this?

_Whatever it is, I must be repressing it on purpose_ , Sarah thought. _If it were something trivial, I’d have remembered it by now. This is something I know I’m not going to like when it finally comes back to me_.

Physical and mental exhaustion hit her with a stunning abruptness. Sarah dropped back into the pillow and fell into thick, black slumber.

(viii)

The rest of the night blurred the perception between dream and waking reality. There was sleep, deep and dreamless. When they awoke, there was lovemaking, smouldering and tempstuous. They gorged on food, they lingered in the hot bath, they returned to bed, where the insatible need for each other overwhelmed them yet again.

Near dawn, Sarah dreamed.

The dream was remarkable not only for its vivid quality, but because she’d dreamed at all. Perhaps because so much of the night had seemed like a phantasmagoria, there had been no need for ordinary dreams. But she knew immediately that this experience, even as it played out in her mind, could not be real.

She was flying in the air, floating above a summer meadow filled with flowers. A lovely, hazy mist hovered over the field in gentle clouds, concealing the sun with a pearl-gray veil. Jareth was walking through the meadow. Something about him seemed different: he was physically the same, but through some slight, subtle change, he appeared older, sadder.

At his side walked two young children, and Sarah’s heart almost burst when she realized these must be her own. The girl was perhaps five or six, dark-haired, with Jareth’s features and lovely cat-like eyes. The boy seemed no more than three, a tiny replica of Jareth, right down to the crazy, irrepresible mane of hair, such a pale blond it was almost white. Sarah could see something of herself in his face, his eyes wide and emerald-green. Both youngsters had Jareth’s upturned goblin eyebrows.

_But where am I?_ Sarah wondered. _Where am I?_

The trio stopped, and Jareth scooted down, pointing something out to the children at the base of a tall tree. The little girl grew distressed. The little boy began sobbing, and Jareth put an arm around the child’s shoulder.

Sarah floated closer, and then she could see the thing that had upset the children so, the reason for Jareth’s grief. At the base of the tree was a small, simple stone, and into the stone had been carved one word.

SARAH.

Sarah began screaming, trying to pound on Jareth with her fists, but her hands went through him, as insubstantial as air. She wailed and screamed and cried, but she could see from the tableaux that she was dead, gone, having left a grieving mate and two children behind.

She awoke, not with a sob, but with a quiet gasp, and lay still in the bed, trying to get her hammering pulse back under control.

_No_ , she thought wildly. _No, no, no!_

And then that snippet of conversation came back to her, the detail that Jareth had dropped so casually, that Sarah had tried to forget, a detail that now remembered, could not be disregarded.

_None of the goblins, of course, cared that their monarch of fifteen centuries had been murdered_.

Fifteen centuries.

She lay motionless, watching the sky outside the tower windows grow from black to gray to lavender. And then she swung noiselessly out of bed and padded into the bathroom.

(ix)

Her clothes were on the chair where she’d left them: smelly, grubby, stiffened with sweat, but Sarah forced herself to put them back on. And then she sat in one of Jareth’s big chairs and waited for him to wake up.

It didn’t take long. He woke up at once, and when he realized she wasn’t beside him, he sat up.

“Sarah?” he said, voice very clear, not the least bit sleep-addled. “What are you doing?”

Tonelessly, she said, “I want to go home.”

It took a moment for this to sink in. “Why?”

“Jareth,” she said, “how old are you?”

Guarded now, he said, “What’s brought all this on?” He swung out of the bed and reached for his clothes, donning the garments in swift, easy movements. Sarah thought dully how he made even the simplest movements look like dance.

“How old are you?” she repeated.

Jareth came to stand beside her. “Why is that important?”

“You said your father was fifteen hundred years old when he died. But he was murdered. You were only fifteen. How much longer would he have lived? What’s a goblin’s natural life-span?”

“Is this what’s troubling you?” he asked, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Why wouldn’t it?” she said. “Jareth, I measure my life in decades, not centuries. How long have you been alive?”

“I lost count a while ago,” he said. “It’s never mattered.”

“But how old?” she persisted. “You must have an idea, at least. The birth of Christ? They pyramids? The Stone Age? You said Raedwald met your mother when the human species was ‘young’—Jareth, we evolved something like a hundred thousand years ago!”

“Young in relative terms,” Jareth said. “They’d begun the practice of tilling fields and keeping animals.”

“So, you’ve been around since the dawn of agriculture?” Sarah sputtered. “Jareth—that’s still thousands of years ago!”

He said, “Goblins are immune to illness, and we age very slowly. Accident—or murder—is the only thing that can really happen to us.”

“I’m going to _die_ ,” Sarah told him. “In another fifty years, I’ll start looking like a prune, and you won’t have changed. Then I’ll be dead.” She shook her head, remembering that horrible nightmare, Jareth and their children staring down at her gravestone.

Jareth said, “However long we have together is however long we have.”

“This _matters_!” Damn him for being so callous about death! Sarah jumped up from the chair.

Jareth caught her, took her hands in his. “Sarah,” he said, his voice shaking. “I love you. I’ve never loved anyone but you. You can’t leave me!”

“Would you hold me here against my will?”

For a long, long moment, he was silent. His eyes searched her face, looking for some sign of weakness. At last he released his hold on her.

“If this is what you wish, Sarah.”

Sarah felt her eyes well up, but she blinked back the idiot tears.

“I can’t do it,” she said, wiping her face on her hand. “I love you, but I can’t live here like that—getting older every day while you stay the same. And then dying, leaving you behind.”

“And your leaving now is any less painful?”

“It’s better this way,” Sarah maintained. “Better than watching me wither away in front of you.”

“The choice is yours, Sarah,” he said.

He sounded cool, remote, but why should he grovel? Jareth twirled the black cloak over his shoulders, donning the emotional armor of the Goblin King. Without further argument, he led Sarah down the stairs and out of the castle.

It hurt her that he wasn’t trying harder to make her stay, but Sarah couldn’t blame him for wanting to keep his dignity. He led her through the city, just stirring at this hour, through the tall gates, and out into the Labyrinth. Sarah blinked, staring around, trying to reconcile her current observations with her memories from six years earlier. Jareth walked in an amazingly straight line along a row of hedges, then along a high brick wall. Sarah kept looking back over her shoulder at the castle, realizing to her chagrin that on her first journey to the Underground, she’d completely overlooked this very direct, very obvious route to the castle.

_Not that it matters now_ , she thought, staring at Jareth’s rigid back. _I never would have learned anything if I hadn’t taken the long way around_.

Outside the brick wall, the terrain grew wild and stony. Unusual trees grew at crazy angles out of the soil. Sarah saw mushrooms and patches of long grass and wildflowers. The countryside looked beautiful with the sun’s rays burning off the morning mist. Birds sang. Sarah’s heart knocked against her ribs with hollow despair. All this could have been her home, and now, she would never know any of it.

They reached a stone outcropping on the side of a hill. Jareth paused, and Sarah stood beside him. From here, they could see the entire Labyrinth, the castle now very distant. Behind them, rolling hills and forests and grassy fields extended to the horizon.

“This is it,” Jareth said. “Unless you’ve changed your mind?”

“No,” she said. “No, I’m sorry, Jareth.”

“As you wish.” Jareth made an ironic little bow. “Goodbye, Sarah.”

His voice echoed strangely in her ears. Sarah blinked. The Underground was gone. She stood on a broad concrete slab, at the base of a shallow bowl. Around her rose up flat, terraced seats. Clouds of white mist swirled about, shot through with golden rays from the October sunrise. Sarah was on the stage of the Oneida amphitheater, a two minute walk from Riley Hall.

Something caught her eye, and Sarah leaned down to pick it up: a goblin mask from the children’s theater production. Sarah held it in her hands, turning it over, before finally tossing it aside. It skittered across the stage and came to rest in a pile of dry, russet-colored leaves.

**To be continued…**


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost there! Final two sections will be posted either on Dec 29 or Dec 30.

Title: **Semi-Charmed Life**

Author: E.A. Week

E-mail: e.a.week at gmail dot com

Summary: Six years after her adventures in the Labyrinth, Sarah is now a senior in college. When two local children disappear under mysterious circumstances, she immediately suspects Jareth’s hand. But as ever, nothing is what it seems.

Category: _Labyrinth._

Distribution: Feel free to rec or link to this story, but **please** drop me at least a brief e-mail and let me know you've done this.

Feedback: Letters of comment are always welcome! Loved it? Hated it? Leave a review, send me a PM or an email and let me know why!

Disclaimer: Copyrights to all characters in this story belong to their respective creators, production companies, and studios. I’m just borrowing them, honest!

Credit where credit is due: The story title is stolen from Third Eye Blind. Part VI title is stolen from Duncan Sheik.

Story rating: This story is rated M (mature/ explicit) for language, sexuality, and adult themes.

**Part VI**

_Barely Breathing_

“Sarah?” A moment’s pause, then, “ _Sarah!_ ”

Blinking, Sarah answered, “What?”

From across the table, Raelin said, “Jesus, Sarah, you were a thousand miles away.”

“Sorry,” Sarah responded.

Danny had joined them for lunch, and now he exchanged a worried glance with Raelin. “You okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine… just a lot on my mind.”

He asked, “So, what’s happening with Professor Hammersmith? Is she still teaching…?”

“No… she’s on leave.” Sarah felt a guilty stab because of the knowledge she could never share with anyone. Not that knowing the bizarre truth would have brought Victoria any peace of mind.

“Who’s supervising your thesis?” asked Raelin.

“I dunno.” Sarah picked at the remains of her sandwich. “I haven’t talked to anyone about it.” Her thesis, like everything else, seemed so unimportant right now, completely without meaning.

“You should,” Raelin said, looking concerned. “It’s almost November. You don’t wanna let that go too long.”

“Yeah.” Sarah gave up on trying to eat. “Listen, I need to run.” She swung around, standing up from the bench, and trudged into the kitchen, where she dumped her tray.

Outside the great hall, Raelin waylaid her. “Okay, girlfriend,” she said, “spill. What the hell happened to you?”

“Nothing,” insisted Sarah.

“Bullshit,” said Raelin. “You look like a scarecrow—seriously you must’ve lost like twenty pounds or something! Plus, you look, I dunno… sad, like your dog was run over.”

“Look, I’m just… kind of feeling down right now… maybe it’s senioritis or post-France blahs, I dunno.”

“Is it because of Victoria? I know you’re pretty close to her.”

“That’s part of it,” allowed Sarah. Victoria’s tragedy was certainly connected to Sarah’s funk—that much, at least, was true.

“You still going to the Halloween party? Danny’s kinda worried you’re getting cold feet on him.”

“Yeah, I’m going.” Even if she had to force herself to go, to try to have fun. “Listen, I need to go upstairs…” Sarah made a feeble gesture with one arm, desperate to get away.

“Yeah, okay,” said Raelin. “And if you start feeling suicidal or something, for God’s sake, _tell_ someone.”

“Okay, okay,” Sarah said. She stumped on wooden legs up to her room, where she tossed down her morning’s books and picked up the ones for her afternoon class. The pile of unread library books sat on her desk, a reproach to her for her procrastination. The last thing Sarah felt in the mood for right now was plunging into the world of medieval calendar art. She knew the work might make her feel better—at least it might distract her a little—but it would be far from an antidote to her melancholy.

She went to her closet and drew out the white ball gown, stroking the shimmering fabric. In this dress, she might have married Jareth, pledging herself to him, if not forever, then for the rest of her life. And in the wink of an eye, her life would be over. The thought was unbearable. Maybe it was selfish of her, but she couldn’t stand the idea of Jareth still alive in a world without her—although that was going to happen anyway, whether she married him or not.

She sighed. God, she just _missed_ Jareth. Missed his face, his voice, his hands, his elegant posture and mannerisms. She missed the touch of his lips on her skin. Missed his challenging intelligence, missed how alive she’d felt when she was with him. Everything felt drab, without joy or color.

She’d been back for five days now, and she was finding herself painfully apathetic about her life—her studies, her friendships, her plans for the future—it all seemed so meaningless now. She’d never really appreciated the importance of love, always considering it a matter of secondary concern, something to be sampled if she so wished, but that could be set aside coolly when it no longer suited her. How foolish she’d been. Love was the most important thing, and without it, she felt like a pale ghost, loitering in her own life.

Despite her exhaustion, Sarah had been unable to sleep, unable to eat, barely able to tend to basic hygiene, and though she’d been attending classes, her concentration had been scattershot at best. How different from her first return from the Labyrinth, when she’d felt energized and triumphant, full of resolve. In those days, plunging herself back into ordinary life had been so easy. She’d been eager to face the challenges of school head-on—after all, what couldn’t she do? But now, Sarah felt no triumph, only a nagging sense of grief and loss. The last time she’d felt so low was after the house had burned down.

She went back to her desk and thumbed through her copy of _The Labyrinth_ —Victoria’s copy. How tempting it would be to summon Jareth—if he would even answer her call. _No_ , she thought wildly, _I am **not** going there!_ Sarah grabbed her book bag and ran from the room.

(ii)

Sarah stared down at the photocopied piece of paper with a kind of dawning horror. Around her at the big wooden table, kids were taking out pencils and pens, helping themselves to stacks of bluebooks, and beginning to write their exams.

_Shit, shit, shit!_ Sarah had known about this exam for weeks, of course, but her recent adventures in the other-worlds had driven her scholastic responsibilities to the furthest recesses of her thoughts. In Tuesday’s class, Professor Shaw no doubt had reminded everyone of the midterm, but Sarah had been too numb to pay attention. Now she found herself living the ultimate academic nightmare, a major test for which she was unprepared. This midterm would be forty percent of her final grade.

Professor Shaw turned, graying black bob swinging around her shoulders, and regarded Sarah over the top of her spectacles. “Is something wrong, Sarah?”

“No,” Sarah murmured, fighting the temptation to offer some lame excuse—illness or a family crisis that had prevented her from studying. She dug out a pen, grabbed a stack of bluebooks, and stared down at the piece of paper with the exam questions. For a moment, it was as if all her ability to read in German had left her, as well as everything she’d ever studied about German Romanticism. The exam consisted of two questions, each requiring a long essay response. Sarah tried not to panic.

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and did her best to summon equilibrium. She envisioned her textbook for the course, thought about the stories and poetry she’d read. Surely she possessed enough knowledge to answer these two questions competently.

Some inner gear seemed to shift at that moment, and Sarah realized that not only could she envision the book, it was like she could see the pages of text as clearly as the classroom walls. Grammar and syntax and vocabulary came flooding back. Sarah exhaled in relief, picked up her pen, opened the nearest bluebook, and began to write.

For forty-five minutes, she scribbled in furious, fluent German about themes of thwarted love in the poetry of Heinrich Heine, then for another forty-five minutes, she waxed philosophical about E.T.A. Hoffman’s works of fantasy and horror, her recent adventures providing her with a wry new perspective on both topics. Sarah found she possessed uncanny skills of complete recall, able to provide direct quotations, and she also had no difficulty citing the works of scholarly critics and other secondary sources. With five minutes to go, she scanned back over both essays to check for egregious spelling and grammatical mistakes, but she found none. She’d filled nearly four bluebooks with her neat penmanship, and the last thing she checked was to make sure her name was on the covers of all four small booklets. With a smile, she handed the essays over to Professor Shaw when the class ended.

_Phew!_ On her way back across campus, Sarah dug out her textbook and skimmed through the pages, finding that her memory had been entirely correct. Sarah felt giddy, wobbly-legged with relief. _Either that was complete inspiration, or a complete disaster_ , she thought. Well, she’d know for sure when Professor Shaw returned the exams. In the meantime, Sarah could have turned cartwheels. For the first time since leaving Jareth, she felt if not happy, at least energized. Maybe this was all she’d needed, this bolt of adrenaline. She felt like she’d just accomplished the academic equivalent of lifting a car off a trapped child.

Too impatient to wait for the bus, Sarah skipped all the way back to Riley Hall, attracting some odd glances from other students, but she didn’t care what they thought of her. She headed straight for the dining room, hoping to pinch an early dinner from the student workers. She was ravenously hungry, so much so that the acorns lying on the ground outside Riley had started to look disturbingly tasty.

(iii)

“So, I was thinking: party back in my room when the dance is over… I think I have the biggest room. Unless we wanna have it up in Sarah’s room for better atmosphere. Sarah?”

Sarah’s head jerked up. “No, I think your room’s definitely bigger, like sixteen by sixteen. My room’s only about twelve by fourteen… how many people are you inviting?”

With a dubious expression, Danny said, “You measured both rooms?”

“No, I just know how big they are,” Sarah responded.

Raelin was staring across the table. “What’s wrong with your hands?”

“Nothing,” answered Sarah, surprised.

“You’re scratching your fingers,” Raelin accused. “Do they itch?”

“I am?” Sarah looked down at her hands, giving them a closer examination under the light. Across the long table, Raelin shook her head, rolling her eyes up at the ceiling. Beside her, Danny grinned.

“Poison ivy?” he asked Sarah.

“No,” she said, frowning. “I think my skin is just dry.” The skin around the base of her fingernails was red. Sarah could see no sign of peeling or flaking or anything that looked like a bumpy rash. She’d had poison ivy exactly once in her life, an experience she cared never to repeat, and she knew the telltale signs too well. “I’ll put some lotion on it tonight.”

After dinner, Raelin followed her up the stairs.

“Are you _sure_ you’re okay?”

“Will you please stop taking my emotional temperature?” Sarah laughed.

“You were down in the dumps for like a week, now you’re all happy-happy.”

“I have more energy,” said Sarah. “That’s different from happy.”

“You’re still not eating much.”

Sarah made a face. “The food here has gone seriously gross,” she said. “Haven’t you noticed?”

“It isn’t gross at all.” Raelin folded her arms.

“I’m not anorexic if that’s what you’re worried about.” Sarah patted her book bag, where she’d stashed several pieces of fruit and a large paper napkin full of mixed nuts.

“So, you’re on some weird health food diet? You’ve been living on trail mix for a week.”

“I’m fine,” insisted Sarah. “Look. If I was seriously sick, could I do this?” She jumped halfway down the flight of steps to the landing below, causing Raelin to shriek out loud.

“Sarah—ohmigod, you could kill yourself!”

“No, I won’t,” Sarah laughed, bouncing back up. “Isn’t this wild?” She jumped again, dropping onto the landing without a sound.

Now Raelin was staring, mouth open, eyes full of suspicion. “Are you on drugs?”

“Nope,” Sarah responded, skipping back up the stairs. “Anyway, I have tons of homework. Later, okay?”

“Yeah,” said Raelin, her face creased with worry. “Later… I guess.”

(iv)

The sound of birds singing startled Sarah, and she set down the thick tome on medieval French monastic life. _What the hell time is it?_ She checked her clock: five-fifteen. In the morning. _Oh, crap!_ Sarah jumped out of the chair, going to the window. Had she been up all night? Outside, the sky to the east was growing light. Sarah circled around to the desk again, picking up her book. She’d started reading after dinner, had become engrossed in the volume, and had kept right on reading. She was now within fifty pages of finishing the book, close to nine hundred pages of dense academic French. Sarah found that she could bring to mind nearly every word she’d read, including captions on photos and diagrams. She’d started making notes on index cards, but had stopped after a few chapters, since it seemed like such a waste of time.

Sarah debated taking a nap, but she didn’t feel tired in the least. She checked her schedule, loaded her bag with the morning’s books and notebooks, and then, since she had a couple of hours to kill, pulled on sweats and sneakers. It looked like a good morning for a run.

(v)

By the time she returned to Riley, Sarah had worked up an appetite, and she went immediately to the great hall for breakfast. But the smell of everything was so off-putting: the greasy eggs and bacon, the thick, sticky-looking stacks of pancakes and French toast. She poured out a dish of Cheerios, but was so nauseated by the smell of milk that she dumped the whole dish in the kitchen sink without eating any of it. She tried a plain bagel, but the texture and consistency felt all wrong in her mouth. Everything tasted horrible, over-processed. At last Sarah finally resorted to the big metal bowl of fresh fruit that sat on the buffet, taking two apples and two pears. She washed everything under cold, running water, but still she could taste the pesticides the fruit had been sprayed with. _Disgusting_ , she thought.

She managed to choke down some plain oatmeal and finished up with a large dish of nuts: pecans, walnuts, peanuts, cashews. The couple of days she’d spent in the other-worlds seemed to have affected her taste buds. Sarah wondered how long it would take for her senses of smell and taste to return to normal. _Looks like I’m gonna be on the bird food diet for a while_.

In spite of the sparse meal, Sarah had never felt so energized. Perhaps eliminating rich, sweet foods from her diet had its own benefits. In addition to her heightened physical prowess, she experienced a startling mental clarity—surely these could not be bad things. She bounded up the stairs for a shower and a change of clothes, then back out to the parking lot. When she got into her car and started the engine, something very strange happened: she felt nauseated and claustrophobic and horrified, all at once, as if she were trapped in a tiny, confined space with a venomous cobra. Sarah cut the engine and leaped out of the car, slamming the door shut and standing beside the vehicle, shaking in violent tremors.

_Oh, my God_ , she thought wildly. _What the hell is wrong with me?_

_Okay_ , she told herself after her pulse had settled down. _You were in magical worlds for, what, two or three days? Probably all that happened is some of it rubbed off on you. Don’t worry about it. If you need to walk, walk_. Sarah hurried out to the sidewalk, sprinting downhill toward the main campus, listening for the chapel bell. She could move very quickly without tiring, she’d discovered. Still, she flinched every time a bus or car went past, and Sarah began to worry about how she’d get home for Thanksgiving in a month if this odd condition hadn’t cleared up.

(vi)

By noon that day, it had become apparent that Sarah’s odd phobia had extended to just about any mechanical device. She went to a computer cluster after class to check her email, but after five minutes of agony, she abandoned the effort. Back in her room, she tried listening to music, but both the Diskman and the tiny Apple music player made her ears burn and her head swim with vertigo. Sarah sat in her chair for a while, worrying. The condition seemed to be getting worse instead of better.

Her hands still itched, and now her feet had begun itching, too. Determined to ignore the situation, Sarah ran downstairs for lunch, and then out to her afternoon classes. When she returned to the dorm in the evening, she’d begun to suspect that her physical condition was some affliction sent by Jareth, and she was determined not to succumb. Sooner or later, her willpower would get the better of him, as it always had.

At lunch the next day, Danny and Raelin burst into the great hall together, both of them babbling with excitement.

“Did you see it?” they demanded, grabbing Sarah’s arm.

“Ohmigod, it was so gorgeous!” Raelin exclaimed.

“What, what’s going on?” asked Sarah.

“There was a huge barn owl outside!” Danny said. “It was just sitting there on this boulder, and we walked right up to it, and it didn’t move, and then whammo! It flew right up, flapping in our faces, practically, then took off!” He asked Raelin, “Did you see the wingspan on that thing! Like nine feet wide!”

“Wow,” said Sarah, trying to feign interest and hide her sudden jolt of fear. “Aren’t owls usually nocturnal, or something?”

“I dunno,” said Danny, still giddy with excitement. “I’m gonna call the ornithology lab after lunch and tell them about it. I wish I’d had my camera—it was incredible!”

“Yeah, it was gorgeous!” Raelin enthused. “It had this—this _face_ , I can’t describe it—so intelligent-looking!”

“Yeah,” Sarah responded. “I’ve heard they’re really smart.”

“C’mon,” said Raelin, pulling her into the kitchen. “Let’s get some lunch.”

(vii)

Sarah finally got to sleep in the small hours of the morning, waking with a groan when her alarm clock began to bleat its summons. She hit the snooze bar, grimacing a little, and when she did, she sat bolt upright in bed, staring in abject horror down at her right hand.

Now she understood the reason for all the discomfort she’d been having. She was starting to develop claws.

How could Jareth be _doing_ this? Did his power extend so far outside the Underground? Powerful enough to transform her into a goblin? Trembling, Sarah pushed back the covers, staring down at her bare feet. She was developing claws in her toes as well.

_Is it because we were lovers?_ Sarah wondered. Had that somehow given him the power to alter her very biology?

She went to the mirror and examined her face. Still the same, though she detected a slight change in her skin tone. _Wonderful_ , she thought. _First claws, now a green face_.

Forcing herself to stay calm, she sat in her chair and thought the situation over, trying to apply logic. She’d been back from the Underground nearly two weeks, now; Halloween was the next day. Why had the changes come on so slowly, so gradually? If Jareth were going to transform her into a goblin, wouldn’t it have happened all at once? Why this slow, creeping process? No, this wasn’t a spell, Sarah felt sure of that. For one thing, it lacked Jareth’s usual flamboyant style.

_Okay, what would turn me into a goblin besides a spell?_ Sarah thought. She considered what she knew about Jareth. She’d observed the limits on his powers outside the Underground. He could appear in this world only as an owl, unless he was directly summoned. She felt fairly certain that he could not work magic on her—on any human—as long as she was in her own world.

Sarah next considered Jareth himself. He was of mixed blood—though his father had been a goblin, there had been enough genetic compatibility with humans for his mate to conceive a child—

_SHIT!_

Sarah grabbed her book bag and pulled out her student calendar. In this small, leather-bound volume, she made note of her assignments and school vacations and other important deadlines. She also used the calendar to keep track of her monthly cycles. Sarah knew, even before she started counting backwards, what she would find. Her last period had started thirteen days prior to her adventure in Aranea. She should be having one again right now, though she was experiencing none of her usual premenstrual symptoms, no sign it all that it was coming on.

“I was ovulating,” she muttered to herself. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Sarah tossed aside the calendar with a little groan. She tried not to think about the number of times she and Jareth had made love, tried not to think about how often he’d spent himself inside her. _And we weren’t using anything_ , she thought. _I’m not on the pill any more, and it’s not like you can get goblin-condoms in the Underground. And there I was, Fertile Myrtle, banging away at him_. Jareth’s mother had conceived a full goblin’s child. How much easier it would be for Sarah to conceive a child by Jareth, who already had a half-compliment of human DNA.

_Jesus Christ!_ Sarah scolded herself. _You should have known this could happen! You just hop into bed with him like the biggest doo-dah on the planet, and have wild, hot, bunny sex for practically an entire day, right in the middle of your cycle! What the hell did you think was going to happen? He **told** you the story of his conception, so you knew you’d be genetically compatible with him, but you’re still so goddamned thick you didn’t put the pieces together!_ This was the sort of thing that happened to other women, not smart, educated Sarah Williams.

_God, how could I be so **stupid**?_

Sarah stopped the mental self-flagellation long enough to wonder why being pregnant would turn her into a goblin. The answer was obvious, and it came to her right away: she was sharing a blood supply with the embryo. Its goblin blood was now circulating around Sarah’s system, and she suspected that the further she progressed into the pregnancy, the more goblin-like she would become.

_This is what happened to Jareth’s mother_ , she realized. She remembered the story he’d told her, the careful way he’d described the details: his mother had learned Raedwald, her lover, was in fact a goblin _only when she realized she was expecting a child_.

_So, why didn’t he tell me? Was he afraid I’d refuse to keep having sex with him? And when I wanted to leave, why didn’t he mention this could happen—that there’s a way I could become a goblin, like him?_

Sarah had to ask herself how she would have reacted if Jareth had announced this to her in a last-ditch effort to make her stay. _Sarah, babe, if I knock you up with my goblin-spawn, you’d be a goblin, too, and then we’d be, like, tubular_. Sarah broke into giggles, then she sobered. _Yeah, that would’ve sat really well with me_ , she thought. _I’d probably have smacked him for being so damned presumptuous_. In hindsight, she had to admire Jareth for his restraint. _Maybe this is why he irritates me_ , she realized. _He keeps proving me wrong, keeps dashing my assumptions about him_.

The big question now, of course, was what she would do about her condition. She knew how easy it would be to have an abortion: a quick trip up to Syracuse, an appointment in an anonymous Planned Parenthood clinic, then back to Oneida the next day, with no one any the wiser. Raelin, ever loyal and supportive, would probably volunteer to accompany her. Sarah wondered: if she ended the pregnancy now, would the subtle changes be reversed, or would they be permanent? Would she need transfusions to get the goblin blood out of her system?

Then she considered the other alternative. If her hunch was correct, the pregnancy would turn her into a human-goblin, much like Jareth. She already could feel how much stronger she’d become, how energized, and she was barely two weeks along. The new mental clarity she was experiencing must also be an effect. Given time, would she also be able to accomplish feats of magic? Carrying a pregnancy to term seemed like a small price to pay for supernatural abilities. And her life-span? According to Jareth, goblin blood protected one against aging and illness. She might not live as long as him, but she’d likely enjoy a far longer lifespan than most humans.

Sarah’s heart gave a giddy little thump. _We could be together_.

_Wow_ , she thought, leaning back in her seat. _What a conundrum_.

She wondered if Jareth still loved her, still wanted her. How much would she have to grovel for him to take her back? She’d jilted him; no matter how valid her reasons, it still must have stung.

_Of course he still wants you_ , she thought. _Raelin and Danny saw him yesterday_. _He’s flying around out there in owl form, mooning over you, the way he’s been mooning over you half your life. Tell him he’s got an heir on the way, and he’ll be ecstatic_.

Sarah thought about the things she’d be giving up. She stared around the room at her books, her posters, her belongings, all the detritus of her young life. There would be no living in both worlds. Becoming a goblin would mean going to live in the Underground and being a goblin for the rest of her existence. Maybe, given time, she might be able to shape-shift like Jareth and enter the human world in another form. But she might never see her family or friends again, and for all intents and purposes, she would be dead to them.

_Time’s ticking_ , she thought. _If you wanna stay in this world, you know what you’re gonna have to do, and you’re gonna have to do it fast_. If she dithered, putting off the necessary appointment for too long, the change would be permanent, and the decision would be made for her.

Sarah went to her window and stared down at the grassy courtyard. It seemed like a lifetime ago that she’d stood here, watching the kids playing in their goblin costumes. Absently, she rubbed her still-flat belly, trying to envision herself as a mother. She thought of the two children from her dream, and her heart compressed. She tried to imagine never seeing again the people she loved: her parents, Toby, Raelin. She tried also to imagine what her life would be like if she opted to stay in this world. She pictured herself as a middle-aged academic like Professor Hammersmith or Professor Shaw: her hair graying, her face lined, devoting her life to nurturing the next generation of scholars. Not the worst life, true, but was it the life she really wanted?

In the distance, the chapel bell began to chime, the sound carrying clearly in the October morning. Nine o’clock. Resolutely, Sarah went to her desk and picked up the telephone.

(viii)

The arrangements were easier to make than she’d thought. There were two phone calls, both advising her of the paperwork she’d need to fill out. Sarah skipped her morning classes, walking to the main campus and making quick visits to two offices: the registrar, and student housing. Signing her name to the forms felt scary, but also brought an odd sense of relief: her decision had been made, and now she could only move forward.

By the time she got back to Riley Hall, there was already a message on her answering machine from the dean of students, asking her to call back immediately about her withdrawal from the university. Sarah listened to the message and then deleted it.

She spent the rest of the morning organizing and packing her belongings. At noon, she joined Danny and Raelin for lunch in the great hall.

“Did you hear?” Raelin squeaked as soon as she saw Sarah.

“Hear about what?” asked Sarah.

“The twins’ve been spotted!”

“Sacha and Ivanka?” Sarah goggled at her friend. “Where?”

“Venice,” Raelin said. “One of the profs from the Italian department is over there for the semester, and he’d heard about the kids’ disappearance from someone else in the department. Well, he was in the Piazza San Marco a couple of nights ago, and he swears he saw the two kids. They were by themselves. He called to them and tried to follow them, but they just vanished.”

“Is he sure?” asked Sarah. “Did he recognize them?”

“He’s good friends with Victoria—they used to have offices right next to each other, so yeah, he knows what the kids look like. It was definitely them. He said they looked a little strange, but he’d know them anywhere.”

“Strange how?” asked Sarah.

“Dunno,” Raelin shrugged. “Just strange. Like, not quite themselves. But they’re both alive, and they’re okay, and they’re not prisoners.”

Sarah pondered this while she loaded a tray with fruit and nuts and fresh vegetables. Danny and Raelin gave her concerned looks, but at least they weren’t criticizing her. Sarah didn’t want lunch to turn into a dreary argument about her diet. She wanted to enjoy this time with her friends, one of their last meals together.

The news about Sacha and Ivanka worried her. She’d hoped the twins would land somewhere they wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone, and she disliked the thought of them roaming at large around Europe. She worried about the degree of power they might now possess.

“That owl’s been spotted again,” Danny provided.

“Really?” asked Sarah, heart skittering. She forgot about the twins. “Around here?”

“Yeah, down in the gorge. Someone was out hiking this morning and saw it flying around.”

“Cool,” said Sarah. “Maybe it wants to enroll.”

She tried to coax her friends’ costume plans out of them.

“No way,” Raelin laughed. “We’re not gonna ruin the joke.”

“We?” asked Sarah, surprised.

Danny flushed a little. “Well, we kinda came up with the idea together, and we found the perfect costumes in the theater wardrobe—”

“No, no, it’s okay,” said Sarah.

When he finished eating, Danny excused himself with a quick mumble about needing to attend to something in the pottery studio, nearly tripping in his haste to get out of the great hall.

“Is there something I should know?” Sarah smiled at Raelin.

Raelin stared down at her plate, her expression guilty and miserable.

Laughing, Sarah said, “It’s totally okay.”

Raelin’s head jerked up. “For real?”

“Look… I can see something’s up with the two of you—”

“We didn’t plan it!” said Raelin defensively. “We were joking around about costumes, and then… I dunno. I like hanging out with him.”

“It’s okay!” insisted Sarah.

“You’re not pissed at me for scooping your guy?”

“He’s not ‘mine,’” laughed Sarah. “He’s all yours if you want him. Ask him to the dance, for God’s sake. With my blessing.”

Raelin’s eyes were glowing. “Sarah, you rock.” She said, “So, who’re you gonna go with?”

Sarah colored up a little. “I have a date lined up, but I’m not sure if he’s gonna show.”

“Oooh, are you _blushing?_ ”

Sarah pretended to cover her face.

“Hey, what’s wrong with your fingernails?”

“Nothing,” Sarah answered, lowering her hands. “Some costuming experiments are best left to actual theater majors.”

Raelin hooted with laughter. She sounded both elated and relieved.

“So, what’s the deal?” asked Sarah. “How long have you liked him?”

Raelin mumbled, “Kinda since freshman year.”

This was perfect, Sarah thought. Raelin would have someone special to lean on after Sarah left, and Sarah wouldn’t be letting Danny down, either.

“So, who’s this guy?” Raelin demanded.

“Aah, let’s just say someone from my past has kind of materialized recently.”

“Is this serious?”

Sarah told her, “It’s the very definition of serious.”

“Wow.” Half-joking, Raelin asked, “Am I gonna be invited to the wedding?”

“Probably not,” Sarah answered. “It’s gonna be kind of a private ceremony.”

Raelin’s mouth opened into a big, round ‘O.’

Sarah burst out laughing. “Just kidding.” Her wedding to Jareth—if they even had a ceremony—might well be witnessed by a thousand goblins.

Raelin growled, “I’m _so_ gonna kill you.”

(ix)

Sarah retreated to her room after lunch, where she stripped the walls bare. In one corner sat a pile of luggage and cardboard boxes, all labeled with her father’s name and address. She took a quick walk into campus, where she emptied out her student mailbox. Professor Shaw had returned the midterm; Sarah had received an A, the blue books sprinkled through with praise. Sarah felt a little pang at the world she was giving up. Well, every joy came with a price.

At the bank, she withdrew most of her money, leaving only enough to cover the last couple of outstanding checks. Back in her room, she sat at her desk and began writing letters. She wrote them all by hand, since using a computer would have been impossible. And the letters would be more reassuringly authentic in her own handwriting.

The most difficult letter was the one to her father, and she crumpled up three drafts before she struck a tone she thought would work. No matter how she phrased things, this would be difficult news for Robert to receive. Despite her assurances, he’d probably worry about her for the rest of his life.

The letter to Linda wasn’t as difficult, mostly because Sarah felt that her mother would understand the situation better than Robert. Linda had been a hopeless romantic all her life; after one particularly disastrous affair, she’d hooked up with Robert, perhaps hoping a tax accountant would provide her with the stability she’d craved. The marriage had lasted long enough to produce one child. Now, Linda divided her time between New York City, where she worked, and London, where her lover Jeremy lived.

Sarah found it easier to be frank with her mother. _You’ve built a life for yourself with Jeremy_ , she wrote. _Dad built a life with Irene, and now they have Toby. I’m not blaming you, Mom (or Dad), but I don’t feel like I belong with either of you anymore. I need to make my own life, start my own family. I know you’ll think I’m too young for this, and maybe I am, but this is my decision. I’ve recently reconnected with a man I met back when I was a teenager. We’re still crazy about each other, and I’m going away with him to get married._

_I know you won’t like this, and Dad won’t either, but I’m dropping out of Oneida. I’m sorry about that. I know you’ll both be disappointed, and in a way, so will I. But I’ve come to feel like I’ve been living someone else’s expectation of what my life should be, rather than the life I truly want to have._

_Unfortunately, my contact with you will be limited—for a few years, at least. I’ll get in touch with you when I can. **Please** be assured I’m happy and safe and well, and that I’m with someone who loves me more than anything on Earth._

_Mom, until the past month, I never used to understand how you could do the crazy things you did. Now I know what it’s like to have my world turned upside down by love, and I wish I’d had a little more perspective back then!_

_Give my love to Jeremy. I love you always,_

_Sarah._

She sealed the envelope, addressed it to her mother’s apartment in New York, and put a stamp in the upper right-hand corner.

The letter to Raelin was the easiest.

_You might’ve guessed by now that the guy from when I was fifteen has resurfaced. I never really fell out of love with him. After Halloween, I’m going away with him to get married. I know that’s shocking, but it’s what I want—I’m tired of trying to be something I’m not._

_Raelin, there’s a lot of seriously weird things that I can’t tell you about—stuff you’d never believe—but I need you to trust me. I’m okay; I’m not joining some wacko cult; I’m happy and well and cared for._

_My father will probably show up in a day or two, and I need you to cover for me. Tell them you saw me dancing at the party with a guy you’d never seen before. It’ll be easier for Dad to believe I ran off with someone than the actual truth. I’m enclosing another letter to you, one you can show Dad, the police, anyone who asks. There’s going to be a lot of questions, and I apologize if you get the third degree about this._

_I’m leaving you the cash I have left, the title to the Volkswagen (it’s all yours!), and this little music player. Raelin, you can’t tell **anyone** about this! It comes from the future (I told you things were weird, didn’t I?)—I can’t explain how—but I’m guessing Apple will start producing them in the early 2000s. You should invest in the company as soon as you have the money—you’ll make a mint._

_Watch for me at the dance! You might get a look at “my guy.”_

_Thanks for being such a great friend. I love you so much—you’re one of the best friends I’ve ever had. Hug Danny for me, and don’t let him get away! He’s a keeper._

_All the best,_

_Sarah._

Sarah sealed up the two letters, the money, and the title and keys to her car in a padded envelope with the small music player. Outside Riley, the sun was lowering in the sky. It was almost dinnertime. Sarah took a walk to the nearest mailbox, dropping in the letters to her parents. She listened to the hollow, metallic sound the envelopes made as they thumped down inside the steel box, experiencing the finality of the moment. She stared around the Oneida campus, still cloaked in its autumnal splendor. There was time for a walk around the gorges before darkness fell. She wanted to savor her last night in this world.

(x)

On Halloween morning, Sarah woke up at once, her mind very clear. She swung out of bed, noting the increased strength in her legs. She’d never been especially athletic, and she reveled in the novelty of feeling so powerful. The pleasure lasted until she got to the bathroom to brush her teeth and took a look at her face in the mirror.

Sarah yelped aloud, then leaned closer, staring at herself. “Jesus,” she muttered. Overnight, her thick, black eyebrows had turned up at the outer corners.

After the shock passed, Sarah stood admiring her face. It was longer, thinner, a bit more pointed, and her skin was even more pale than usual. Her lips were very full, though less red—more of a coral color, still very pretty. Her green eyes glittered like the emeralds in the Jeweled Caverns.

_Wow, not bad_ , she thought. _If this is me as a goblin, I can definitely live with it_. She ran her hands through her hair, laughing: it wasn’t as crazy as Jareth’s, but getting there.

Down at breakfast, a couple of other students remarked on her changed appearance.

“Excellent eyebrows,” one girl praised, leaning closer for a better look.

“Don’t touch them,” said Sarah. “The glue, you know?”

Raelin and Danny were giggly and full of themselves, sitting very close together on a bench at one of the long tables. Sarah joined them, taking a seat opposite.

“Cool,” Danny assessed.

“So, the eyebrows worked better than the fingernails?” asked Raelin.

Sarah showed them her hands, where the claws had nearly displaced her fingernails; she’d have to file them down before the party tonight.

“Wild!” said Raelin. “So, you’re still wearing the rig?”

“Oh, sure,” Sarah breezed, biting into an apple. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“So, you’re gonna be the Bride of Frankenstein, or something?” asked Raelin.

“Goblin Queen,” Sarah told them cheerfully.

“Cool,” said Danny again. “There’s something you don’t see every day.”

Sarah responded, “No kidding.”

(xi)

Now, there was nothing to do but wait. Sarah set her hair in rollers and spent most of the day in her room. Her sheets and towels were laundered, folded, and packed in with the rest of her luggage. She clipped and filed her claws so that they wouldn’t snag on her clothes. Deciding it would be fun to wear a mask with her costume, she went downstairs to one of Riley’s art studios and made a half-mask: white satin glued onto oak tag and sprinkled with silver glitter. For a flourish, she added a couple of feathers to the sides, and a pair of white satin ribbons to tie the thing. Other kids were in the craft rooms as well, putting finishing touches on their costumes. Halloween was on a Saturday this year, and the dorm was buzzing as the party committee decorated and pushed furniture around in the great hall.

Nobody gave Sarah a second look, for which she was grateful. She ate a lunch of apples and walnuts in her room, soaked in a bathtub for a couple of hours, then went back to her bare room and started to get dressed.

She styled her hair with care, trying to approximate how it had looked in that hallucination six years earlier—the big pile of brushed-back curls—and after a few attempts, got the headpiece on the right way, the butterfly clips fastened, the streamers woven back through the curls. Sarah didn’t bother with makeup, since her skin looked so peculiar already. She donned the French lingerie, and then the dress itself, her arms so limber she could fasten all the hooks by herself without even looking in a mirror. Despite her recent weight loss, the dress still fit perfectly, and now she could sense the enchantment that assured it always would. The jewelry and shoes were next, and then, finally, the mask. The overall effect was glorious.

She tidied up her room, hanging the large bath towel to dry, and folding her last clothes into an overnight bag. Sarah opened wide her window, breathing in the cool evening air, listening to the sounds from all around campus: her hearing was marvelously acute. She could hear all sorts of things now. Was that the velvet-soft flutter of a large bird’s wings? It sounded close-by—maybe up on the roof of the tower.

Closing her eyes and speaking very quietly, Sarah made her wish. She didn’t wait to see the results, just swept out of the room, the skirt of the gown rustling around her. She left the door to her room unlocked, the keys on her desk in plain sight. On her way down to the party, she stopped at Raelin’s third-floor room and pinned the padded envelope to the corkboard. Raelin was already downstairs, and Sarah hoped she wouldn’t return until much later. With that gesture, it seemed, the final tie to her old life had been severed.

(xii)

“Oh… my… God.”

“So… whaddayou think?” asked Raelin.

“Uh—it’s—okay. I think there’s a joke I’m missing, somewhere,” Sarah answered. The three of them were standing in the foyer, outside the great hall.

“Guess.”

“Either _Phantom of the Opera_ in drag… or _Phantom_ meets Monty Python?”

Raelin pointed to the shoulders of her black cloak, where she’d affixed colorful patches embroidered with autumn cornucopias.

“The Phantom goes home with Christine for Thankgiving?”

Danny and Raelin burst out laughing. Sarah shook her head: evidently, goblin blood did not give one the ability to decipher silly human jokes. Raelin wore a dark suit with a long black cloak over it, the iconic _Phantom_ half-mask, and a black gondolier’s hat. The only thing Sarah couldn’t figure out were the cornucopia patches.

“Okay… I’m stumped. What is it?”

“Okay,” said Raelin, “wait for it… you ready? ‘Feast or Phantom.’”

Sarah made an exaggerated groaning noise and burst out laughing. “I love it,” she said. And to Danny, “Okay, she’s the Phantom, you’re clearly Christine…?”

“Christine Die-Yay,” Danny said. He was wearing what appeared to be a cream-colored flapper dress, the thin straps putting his bony arms and shoulders on display. He wore dancer’s tights under the dress and black men’s ballet slippers. His face had been made up in a caricature of Sarah Brightman: enormous eyes and a kewpie doll mouth. Somewhere in the theater wardrobe, he’d also found a vast wig of tumbling brown curls.

“Die-yay?” Sarah repeated.

“You know, you say ‘yay’ when she dies ‘cuz you don’t have to hear that stupid song any more.”

“Which song?” asked Sarah.

“All of them,” said Raelin.

“So, why the flapper dress? Isn’t _Phantom_ more Belle Époque?”

“It was the only dress that fit,” Danny admitted.

“If the costume prizes include one for the worst pun, you guys win, hands down.” But Sarah was still laughing.

Raelin said, “If there’s one for the most gorgeous costume, you’re it. I’m amazed the thing still fits, considering the bird food diet you’ve been on.”

“I altered it,” Sarah lied.

“Great job,” Raelin said. “Is that where you’ve been hiding lately?”

“Yeah,” Sarah responded. “It took a while.”

“Dig the mask,” said Danny.

“Thanks,” said Sarah.

“So, where’s your beau?” taunted Raelin.

“Not here yet,” responded Sarah.

“Okay,” said Raelin. Inside they great hall, music was blaring. “C’mon,” she said, taking Sarah’s arm. “Let’s show off.”

(xiii)

When Sarah looked back on that night, her last night in the human world, mostly she would remember happiness, the light-hearted fun of being with her friends, her dorm-mates, everyone in costume and dancing. She didn’t fret over the past or worry about the future: what was done was done. A couple of times, she thought she glimpsed Jareth from the corners of her eyes, but the lights were low, crowds dense on the dance floor. She knew he would bide his time.

The hours ticked past: seven, eight, nine, ten. The great hall was mobbed: the Halloween party at Riley was always a big event at Oneida, and it felt like half the students on campus had wangled an invitation. The costumes reflected the art students’ creativity. Sarah received a lot of compliments on her dress, the girls all sighing with pleasure and envy, the guys mostly ogling her cleavage. A few tried to flirt or strike up a conversation, but Sarah kept them at arm’s length.

At eleven, she took a break to use the bathroom and have a drink of water. She wandered the first floor hallway for a few minutes, saying hi to everyone, though in her mind of course, she was saying goodbye. She poked her head into all the common rooms, looking around, trying to impress everything into her memory forever: the furniture, the decorations, the configurations of the walls and windows. Leaving this place would be so difficult; in some ways, Oneida—Riley Hall in particular—had been more of a home to her than any house she’d lived in. But then, she reminded herself, she would have been leaving in a few months’ time anyway, when she graduated.

She was going to miss all that—graduation: the excitement, the ceremony, the sense of accomplishment. Sarah realized she also was going to miss the holidays: Thanksgiving and Christmas with her father, a visit with her mother at the New Year—Linda had invited Sarah to come visit her and Jeremy in London. Now those things would never happen. There would be no college reunions for Sarah, no nostalgia and fond reminiscence as she and her classmates cycled through all the phases of life: grad school, careers, marriage, children, deaths and disappointments, middle age, retirement, grandchildren. She was giving up those precious, humble human things, the touchstones of a life well-lived.

Was it worth it? she wondered. Well, she would find out soon enough—very soon, she sensed.

She returned to the great hall, where a slow music number was playing, something sentimental from the eighties. _Turn around, bright eyes_ , the refrain went. Couples swayed together. Sarah remembered the overwrought ballad from middle school. She realized this was another thing she’d be giving up: popular culture, art, current events—all the pieces that comprised her cultural frame of reference. She wondered how it must be for Jareth, the human world looking so different now from when he’d been born, all the changes he must have witnessed. Sarah tried to imagine that, still being alive in five hundred years. Or a thousand. Or five thousand. If she lived that long, all these people here tonight—young, vital, alive—would be dust in their graves, unmourned, unremembered.

Sarah watched Danny and Raelin slow-dancing, two ordinary young people, love blossoming between them. Could anything on Earth be more precious? _I’ll never forget you_ , Sarah silently promised her friends. _As long as I live, I’ll never forget you, or the past three years, or this night. Ever_.

At about ten minutes to midnight, the rock & roll stopped. Then, over the rustle and chatter of the crowd came the soft sound of a harp, sounding the same note twelve times. The students grew quiet, and then broke into cheers when a distinctive violin solo announced the introduction of Danse Macabre. Everyone broke into pairs and small groups, swaying to the sound of the stringed instruments, and beginning spirited, if unskilled waltzes around the great hall.

Sarah didn’t need to look to know he was there, standing right behind her: the hair on the back of her neck stood up. A moment later, she felt his hand on her shoulder, and she turned to face him.

He was wearing the same clothes he’d worn in her ballroom hallucination: the glittery midnight blue frock coat, the ruffled dove-gray shirt. There were even the same blue streaks in his hair. And, like Sarah, he was wearing a mask that concealed the upper part of his face.

She put her right hand in his, her left hand on his shoulder, and he swept her into the dance. Sarah was amazed by how light and easy her body felt; she’d never been more than a mediocre dancer, but now dancing was like blinking or breathing, natural and reflexive.

She couldn’t read Jareth’s expression, and she didn’t try. Enough that he was here. From behind the mask, his eyes burned. They didn’t speak; this moment went beyond words. The music built and swelled, grew quiet and playful, then swelled again. Jareth and Sarah whirled around and around, up and down the length of the great hall, their skill astonishing the students, who began moving out of the way to let the pair past. Soon murmurs of approval and wonderment at the incredible dancers began to rise up. The walls and faces spun past Sarah’s field of vision, but she felt not the slightest bit dizzy. The full skirt of her long dress swept out in dramatic circles with each movement. At one point, they waltzed past Danny and Raelin, who mouthed, “Wow,” nodding in Jareth’s direction.

The music seemed to go on forever, thundering out of the loudspeakers, the strings and woodwinds moaning their spirited dirge, the dance of the dead. Through all this, Jareth’s eyes never left Sarah’s face. His left hand was in hers, right hand resting on her waist, very warm. This was their dance, their music; it might have been created just for them.

At last the music reached its triumphant crescendo, followed by an oboe mimicking the rooster’s crow: dawn. Out in the foyer, Riley’s grandfather clock struck midnight; Sarah could hear the chimes over the music and the excited babble of the students.

Sad violins quietly sobbed a pianissimo: the dead returning to their graves. Sarah’s throat closed and her eyes welled: this was the end; her time in this world was done. Jareth drew her close to him, his arms strong, his body warm and reassuring. And then with a scattering of final, playful notes, the music ended. The students stood applauding, cheering. Jareth took Sarah’s arm and led her from the great hall. Nobody seemed to notice them leaving; he’d put a glamour on himself and Sarah to render them less visible to human eyes.

She thought that they would leave for the Underground right away, but to her surprise, Jareth led her up through the tower, waving a hand to open the trap door to the roof. Sarah climbed up the emergency ladder, managing her heels and skirt with ease. At the top, she leapt gracefully onto the gravel roof with the muscular grace of a cat. Jareth followed behind her.

The view of campus and gorges was breathtaking. Sarah drank it in: the electric lights, the buildings, the cars, all the modern humanity she was abandoning to be with Jareth.

He stood at her side, letting her take this last look at her world without interruption. Then, when he knew she’d had her fill, he turned so that they were facing each other and sank to his knees in front of her.

“Sarah Williams,” he said, his voice low and calm, very formal, “I want to ask you...” he placed something in her hands “… to be my queen.”

Sarah looked down. She held a replica of Jareth’s amulet, crafted to appear slightly smaller and more feminine. At the center of the pendant was the Dragon’s Heart. A shiver of amazement went through her. The metal held a silvery cast, and with her new senses, Sarah could feel the power it contained. Jareth had taken Portia’s magic, reworked it with his own hands, and used it to create a most sublime expression of his love for Sarah. She doubted if, before this, Jareth had ever allowed so much of his heart outside himself.

For a moment, she was speechless. Then she tugged his arms, pulling him up to his feet and drawing him into a tight embrace.

“Is this yes?” he whispered.

“Yes.” Somehow, she uttered the word without sobbing.

He took the amulet from her hand and fastened the clasp of the slender chain around Sarah’s neck. Admiring the effect, he said, “You would make a splendid goblin, Sarah.”

Sarah told him, “I already am.” She reached up and untied the ribbons, letting the mask fall away, letting him see her face.

Jareth said nothing at first. He just looked. At last he ventured a finger to stroke the line of Sarah’s eyebrow, tracing down her jaw to her chin. She could see him absorbing this staggering development, doing the math, and determining—as she had—the reason for the transformation. She actually heard the air whoosh into his lungs as he sucked in his breath.

“Oh, Sarah!” he exhaled.

She gave him a weak smile. “Surprise!”

His stunned shock broke, and he shouted with laughter, pulling her into his arms again; Sarah could feel him shaking. She drew off his mask, and they kissed: deep, wet, and knee-melting. When they parted, Oneida had faded away, and they were back in the Underground, standing on the roof of Jareth’s tower.

(xiv)

Jareth wasted no time: he ordered his servants to begin preparations for the wedding ceremony and feast, and he sent a messenger to summon Pontifex Mynoskyrka. Sarah recognized the name as the goblin who’d invested Jareth as king.

Jareth and Sarah were waiting for him in the castle library when he arrived. Sarah had never seen the library, an endlessly long room full of towering bookcases, the shelves groaning with books and scrolls. There were more volumes scattered about on a large wooden table, maps on the walls, busts of presumably famous goblins in corners. The whole place smelled musty and dusty, the floors and walls creaking and sighing with age. Sarah fell in immediate, crazy love with the place.

For the moment, she didn’t look at anything; there would be more than enough time for that later. She stood with her arms around Jareth, wanting never to let him go.

“Why didn’t you say anything before?” she ventured at last. “This must have been what happened to your mother… didn’t you know?”

Jareth shook his head; he still appeared stunned. “I knew she was human, but also part goblin. I assumed Raedwald had done something to her, but I was never sure… he never told me. I was a child when he died. He taught me magic, taught me about the kingdom, but I was hardly in his confidence.”

Sarah grinned. “Most kids don’t want the details of their parents’ sex lives. That’s pretty universal.”

A goblin-herald announced the arrival of Pontifex Mynoskyrka. He turned out to be a goblin-sage of sorts, an ancient four-armed creature clad in long robes and bearing a crooked staff in one hand. He stood perhaps five feet tall, milky-eyed, blind, and he didn’t look quite in Jareth’s direction when he spoke. “You sent for me, Majesty?”

Jareth took Sarah’s hand and led her to the old goblin. “Pontifex Mynoskyrka, this is Sarah Williams of the Aboveground,” he said. “She’s going to be my queen. I want you to marry us right away.”

“It is long past time you took a bride,” Pontifex Mynoskyrka grunted, holding out a withered hand to Sarah. She placed her hand in his, not sure of his intentions. He stroked her fingers, asking Jareth, “She is human?”

“Human by birth,” Jareth answered.

Pontifex Mynoskyrka seemed to be looking through Sarah, rather than at her, with his blind eyes.

“There is goblin blood in her,” he said at length, turning his head to look in the direction of Jareth’s voice. “Growing ever stronger. Your doing?”

“Yes.”

Pontifex Mynoskyrka continued his slow assessment of Sarah. “She is with child. Your child.”

“Yes,” Jareth repeated. Sarah could feel him reining in his impatience.

“But you are not her first lover.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Sarah burst out. Beside her, Jareth rumbled with quiet laughter.

“No one has any claim on her,” he said.

“She has never pledged herself to another?” inquired the elderly goblin.

“No,” Sarah interjected, tired of being referred to in the third person. “I’ve never been married or engaged to anyone but Jareth.”

“Very well,” Pontifex Mynoskyrka said, releasing Sarah’s hand. “If Your Majesty is satisfied.” He wagged a lecturing finger in her direction. “If the child were not His Majesty’s, the union would be invalid.”

“All right, I get it,” Sarah responded. “It’s Jareth’s baby! Sheesh.”

“Very well,” Pontifex Mynoskyrka repeated. “Let the wedding commence.”

(xv)

The ceremony took place on the castle steps, the city streets now teeming with goblins who shoved in together, all vying for the best spots to witness this historic moment, their king’s wedding. Even more goblins had climbed up onto the roofs of buildings, all shrieking and pointing and chattering amongst themselves.

A pair of beloved figures detached themselves from the goblin horde, and Sarah exclaimed happily as Ludo and Sir Didymus climbed the castle steps.

“Lady Sarah!” Sir Didymus shouted, doffing his cap and bowing to her and Jareth. “Our new queen! O happy, beauteous day!”

“Sawah fwiend!” Ludo boomed, hugging Sarah. He then swallowed up Jareth in his vast arms. “Jaweth, Ludo fwiends!”

“Gmipmphwth,” Jareth mumbled, detaching himself from the great beast. Sarah laughed, watching him use a quick charm to clean the brown fur off his clothes.

“You two can be our attendants,” Sarah decided. Jareth started to protest, but at a look from Sarah, he closed his mouth, grumbling in his throat instead. Ludo stood on the step beside Jareth, and Sir Didymus on the step beside Sarah.

Three steps above the wedding party, so that he would be visible to the crowd, Pontifex Mynoskyrka bellowed a command for silence, and the goblin chatter faded into quiet.

“Goblins, hobgoblins, creatures and beasts of the Underground,” he intoned. “Today, our king, Jareth, son of Raedwald, son of Penrith, son of Octha, son of Nechten, takes the Lady Sarah Williams of the Aboveground as his queen. What say you?”

The goblins erupted into a screaming, cheering, screeching, howling cacophony. It was obvious they would have approved if Pontifex Mynoskyrka had announced Jareth was marrying the finest donkey in his stable.

Pontifex Mynoskyrka let the noise continue for a few moments before bellowing for silence again.

“So be it,” he declared. He told Jareth, “Your Majesty, your subjects have given their approval of the union. Do you accept this female human, Lady Sarah Williams of the Aboveground, as your rightful queen?”

“I do,” Jareth smiled.

“And do you, Lady Sarah Williams of the Aboveground, accept Jareth, son of Raedwald, son of Penrith, son of Octha, son of Nechten, King of the Goblins and Lord of the Underground, as your rightful husband?”

Fighting back a tide of giggles, Sarah responded, “I do.”

Pontifex Mynoskyrka said, “So mote it be.”

Jareth pulled Sarah toward him, and she all but sprang into his arms for the most marvelous kiss of her life. Now lewd catcalls and lascivious shouts joined the riotous goblin cheers. Sarah didn’t care; she barely noticed as she held Jareth to her with all her strength. He was hers, forever, and she was home at last, in the place she belonged.

(xvi)

The celebration continued all day and well into the night. Pontifex Mynoskyrka led the procession around the city, waves of goblins bowing to Sarah, their new queen. They played music, too, which mostly consisted of banging together any two objects at hand. The procession left through the castle gates, weaving among the hedges and walls of the Labyrinth, where the creatures of the Underground hooted and shrieked their pleasure. In a grassy glade, a gaggle of Fierys entertained the royal couple with a display of head-juggling; their leader tried to give Sarah his head as a gift, but she laughed and tossed it back to him, saying she already had one head, and that was quite enough.

Near sundown, the wedding party returned to the castle, where the goblin-chefs had prepared a splendid feast in the great hall. Jareth sat at the head of the long table with Sarah to his right and Sir Didymus to his left. Pontifex Mynoskyrka sat at the other end of the table; he didn’t eat, he only smoked a suspicious-smelling substance in a long-stemmed pipe. Ludo had a special corner all to himself, his table piled high with tree branches. An array of high-ranking goblins lined the sides of the table, preening with their own importance and periodically whacking each other over the head with plates and utensils. A lot of the food was inevitably used as projectile weapons, though not a speck landed on the king or queen.

When the meal ended, Jareth pushed back from the table, drew Sarah next to him in the big chair, and spent the next several hours playing a beautiful stringed lyre and singing in his clear, strong voice. The other goblins accompanied him by clapping, screeching along with the choruses, and using any object at hand as percussion instruments. Several of them got up and began dancing a jig on the tabletop. The festivities continued until well after midnight.

When the wedding guests had departed or fallen into a drunken stupor, Jareth got up, taking Sarah by the hand, smiling at her. They roamed through the corridors, up and down the crazy staircases of the castle, and this time, Sarah had no difficulty negotiating any of it. Their perambulations led them in time to a hidden oasis, a cloistered garden at the castle’s very center.

Sarah inhaled, blinking with pleasure, swooning at the scents of roses and lilacs and honeysuckle and a thousand other flowers. The fragrance hung in the humid air, somehow not cloying, but light, delicious.

“It’s wonderful,” she said, keeping her voice down. The atmosphere in the garden was hushed, almost holy. Sarah heard the murmur of moving water. Butterflies flitted among the luscious blossoms.

Jareth led her around the winding paths. The plants had been allowed to grow a little wild, branches and vines cris-crossing in the air overhead. It was on the tip of Sarah’s tongue to ask since when had goblins ever liked flowers, but she kept that question to herself.

At the center of the garden, she saw the thing Jareth wanted to show her, a marble statue of a woman holding a young child in her arms. The woman had possessed a kind of wild beauty, her hair untamed and waist-length. Her clothing consisted of a simple sleeveless gown, and her feet were bare. High cheekbones and a long jaw gave her face its striking shape. She had cat-like eyes and upturned goblin eyebrows.

The child in her arms looked to have been perhaps a year old, though his expression startled with its keen intelligence. The resemblance between mother and child could not be mistaken.

“That was you?” asked Sarah. “And your mother?”

Jareth nodded, reaching a finger to touch the cheek of his child-self, perhaps wondering what his own child would look like—his and Sarah’s.

“It’s wonderful,” she said at last. And it was wonderful—beautiful and sad and poignant, all at once.

“She created this,” Jareth said, taking Sarah’s arm and leading her around the paths again. “It was her place of retreat, when she needed to be away from the goblins.”

“Really?” Sarah laughed quietly. “I can’t imagine why.”

They rounded another corner, and Jareth said gruffly, “This is new.”

She stared. A small brook bubbled through the gardens, and here, a small pool had formed. Beside the pool a bronze statue had been placed: a lifelike image of Hoggle, sitting on a log, fishing for all eternity.

Sarah couldn’t speak. She just stared and stared.

Jareth coughed, embarrassed.

“Thank you,” Sarah managed.

Jareth grunted. Sarah wiped her face a few times, gazing upon the memorial to her lost friend. It didn’t escape her that Jareth had placed the statue in this garden, where none of the other goblins would ever see it. _Well_ , she thought, _he wouldn’t want them to think he’s going soft_.

In another part of the garden, there was a niche in the stone wall, and there stood a marble statue of Sarah, perhaps four feet high. Sarah, as she’d been at fifteen, wide-eyed and innocent, gazing back over her shoulder, wearing the same gown she was wearing now.

“You’re getting sentimental,” she chided Jareth. She wondered when he’d done this. Recently? Or six years earlier, as a lament to the girl who’d slipped like quicksilver through his fingers? Sarah didn’t ask. She and Jareth would have a long time together; there was no need to pluck all his secrets out of him tonight.

Draping her long, pale arms over his shoulders, she kissed him, and breathed, “Make love to me, Jareth.”

“Right here?” Jareth chuckled, nuzzling her face.

“I’m pretty sure I remember your having a very comfortable bed.”

He laughed and took her arm, leading her out of the garden. Out in the Labyrinth, the birds had begun to chorus the first songs of dawn.

(xvi)

Golden rays of sunrise slanted in through the windows of the tower room. Sarah lay curled against Jareth, utterly sated, his arm around her, the long, slim hand caressing her belly.

“Girl or boy?” he murmured. “Do you know?”

“No clue,” she admitted. “It’ll be a surprise for both of us.” Then she asked, “Do you care?”

“No,” he said, “so long as it’s as beautiful as you.”

“You’re shameless,” Sarah laughed. She felt so wonderfully sleepy, drifting like this, enveloped in Jareth’s musky warmth. There was something she needed to tell him…

“Jareth…?”

“Hmm?”

“I keep meaning to tell you…” The thought slipped away as Sarah dropped into blissful slumber.

“Later,” Jareth murmured, drawing the silk sheet up around her shoulders. Whatever it was she’d had to say, it could wait until tomorrow—they now had all the tomorrows in the world. He wrapped himself around Sarah, his bride, his queen, and for the first time in thousands of years, fell into a sleep of perfect happiness and contentment.

**To be continued…**


	7. Chapter 7

Title: **Semi-Charmed Life**

Author: E.A. Week

E-mail: e.a.week at gmail dot com

Summary: Six years after her adventures in the Labyrinth, Sarah is now a senior in college. When two local children disappear under mysterious circumstances, she immediately suspects Jareth’s hand. But as ever, nothing is what it seems.

Category: _Labyrinth._

Distribution: Feel free to rec or link to this story, but **please** drop me at least a brief e-mail and let me know you've done this.

Feedback: Letters of comment are always welcome! Loved it? Hated it? Leave a review, send me a PM or an email and let me know why!

Disclaimer: Copyrights to all characters in this story belong to their respective creators, production companies, and studios. I’m just borrowing them, honest!

Credit where credit is due: The story title is stolen from Third Eye Blind. Part VII title is stolen from Peter Gabriel.

Story rating: This story is rated M (mature/ explicit) for language, sexuality, and adult themes.

**Part VII**

_Before Night Falls_

Ivanka was burning in Hell.

Babushka had always said the twins had the evil eye and that one day they would burn in Hell for their wickedness. Now, it seemed she was right.

Ivanka could not have imagined anything like this: her entire being consumed in a never-ending inferno. She screamed and screamed, writhing, but the torment bore on. For the longest time, she and Sacha had fallen, fallen, fallen through the skies, before landing in this place of nowhere and nothing, this lake of fire. The only sound to be heard was the irregular booming of a hideous drum. Boom- _thump_ , boom- _thump_ , boom- _thump_ , until Ivanka thought she would go mad from listening to it.

The torture did not make her feel contrite or wish that she had been a better, kinder girl. If anything, it made her even angrier: angry at her mother and father, angry at Babushka, angry at the Goblin King and that horrid girl he loved. If any of them were here in front of her, Ivanka would have tortured them to death with her eyes. Defiantly she thought that if she had to burn for eternity, she was never going to repent: never, never.

Hell was black, too, blacker than the darkest night, like being at the bottom of a coal mine. And yet, if Ivanka opened her eyes, through the haze of pain, she thought she perceived lighter patches of gray, very far overhead. This novelty wasn’t enough to distract her from the agony of the fire, and some unknowable span of time later, the gray patches faded, and all was black, raging fire.

Somewhere, Ivanka couldn’t be sure where, the sameness of the dark and the pain began to alter. Instead of mindless suffering, Ivanka found herself able to think clearly, to remember things. Now she could recall landing with Sacha in the middle of some field, those grotesque people finding them. The people had been filthy, smelly, dressed in rags; they’d spoken a language Ivanka and Sacha had never heard before.

_They burned us_ , Ivanka realized, and her anger multiplied. Sacha had instinctively tried to use his gift to protect Ivanka, but those vile peasants had captured both children, throwing a dirty sack over Sacha’s head to disrupt his vision. Ivanka, with one eye put out, had been unable to help him. The peasants had created a pyre and chained both twins to a stake in the middle of it. The wood had been wet, sending up thick, billowing clouds of choking black smoke…

She must have died from inhaling the smoke. Her body had burned, and her soul would burn like this, too, forever.

From very far away, over the booming and thumping, Ivanka thought she heard a different noise: someone was screaming. _Sacha?_ Was it him? Or some other soul in torment? She wanted to call out for her brother, but the relentless pain wouldn’t allow her to do anything except scream.

Yet she continued to grow stronger, her mind more clear. At some point, Ivanka stopped screaming: she could exercise her will, and screaming wouldn’t change anything.

And then, once again, she began to perceive light gray patches above her. No question about it; the patches were growing lighter and lighter. Ivanka blinked and realized she could see—with both her eyes. She was looking straight up at some strange, irregular black latticework—the top of a cage? Beyond that black cage was something light, a very light pearly gray. Ivanka focused on that.

She’d begun to realize she could smell, too, detect the smallest scents. There were wet smells: vegetation and fungus and leaf-mold and wet, sour dirt. She could hear the steady, persistent drip of water, a tiny sound, but she clearly perceived it over the rapid, rhythmic boom- _thump_. Not far away she heard the booming of another drum, and a quiet groaning.

Her mouth worked, and Ivanka screeched, _“Sacha?”_

There was a louder groan in reply. _Where was he?_ Ivanka couldn’t even lift her head to look.

Overhead, the latticework continued to grow more clear, more detailed, the shapes resolving into a canopy of bare tree limbs. She could control more of her body now, her hands flailing out. She grabbed onto something that felt like dry, crumbly chalk, and something else that felt wet and pulpy.

It had begun to occur to Ivanka that she might not be in Hell after all, or at the very least, that she’d passed on to an even stranger afterworld. _She was staring up at the sky_ —that pale canvas beyond the tree limbs was a gray sky, overcast with rainclouds.

Another span of time later, the nature of the fiery torture began to subtly alter. Ivanka could detect no more pain in her fingertips and toetips, although the pain at her core had intensified, and the drum-pounding had grown agonizingly louder and faster.

As she watched, the sky overhead began to grow darker, as if night were coming on.

Now her fingers and toes were entirely pain-free, even as the fire moved inward, toward the center of her body. Body? She still had a body? She must. She could hear, she could see, she could feel things beneath her hands, and she realized to her horror that the demonic drum-pounding of the past immeasurable time-span was nothing more than her own heart. Ivanka’s arms flailed, hands trying to clutch at her chest.

By now, the pain had retreated from her hands and feet, down from her scalp, moving across her face. Ivanka shrieked, gasping: her heart was like a pocket of molten lava in her chest, ready to rip out of her like a seething volcano. All the pain in her body was retreating into her heart, traveling inward through her arms and legs, into her torso. Her head and neck were free of pain, though her throat still burned with a dry, desert-like scratch. Ivanka threw back her head and wailed, her heart beating with such excruciating, painful force that her spine arched upward, and she wondered that the inferno didn’t break her in half. And then her heart gave one final, massive shudder and went completely still.

Ivanka stopped shrieking. When she did, she heard a loud cry of pure agony: it went on for another five seconds, and then ceased with abrupt, almost comical suddenness.

“Sacha?” she breathed, not daring to move for fear the pain would return.

“Ivanka?” His voice sounded so different now: beautiful, smooth, like a Stradivarius violin. Ivanka turned her head and realized he lay not ten feet away from her. He’d been there the entire time, both of them lying at the base of an enormous boulder.

Almost without realizing it, Ivanka was on her feet: she’d flown off the ground and landed upright, not even needing to think. The command from her brain and her body’s reaction had happened simultaneously. Once on her feet, Ivanka saw that the chalky stuff she’d been grabbing with her hands were small stones, now ground to powder; the pulpy stuff had been tree roots, which had large chunks torn out of them.

She stared stupidly at her brother. He was completely naked—so was she—and as perfect as something carved in marble by Michelangelo. The lines of his face and body could not have been more symmetrical, more exquisite. And he was staring back at her with a dumbfounded expression that suggested Ivanka herself was equally as beautiful.

Most astonishing of all, though, were his eyes. They’d turned the brilliant red of rubies, glimmering and multifaceted, as stunning as the jewels of the Spider-Queen and her mate.

“Your eyes,” they said in unison. Ivanka clutched her throat. On one hand, the sound of her voice astonished her: like a fine woodwind, an oboe or a clarinet. On the other hand, she was so infernally thirsty. Her throat was dry, parched, as desiccated as the Sahara, the only remnant of the pain she’d suffered. How could such a dry throat produce such a voice?

“We were in Hell,” said Sacha.

“Don’t be stupid,” Ivanka responded, turning her head to assess their surroundings. “We’re in the woods… somewhere. Look, it’s winter—there’s no leaves on the trees.”

“What happened to us?” asked Sacha. “I feel… strong.” He kicked out with his right foot, and a tall tree cracked at its base, toppling over into the underbrush.

“I’m thirsty,” Ivanka moaned. “There must be water around here, somewhere.” Oddly, though, it wasn’t water she craved…

“We must have been—”

“It was something the Spider-Queen did to us,” Ivanka interrupted. Her memories of that experience were muted and dim now, as though she were trying to view them through black cloth. “She must have given us her power.”

“We were in Hell,” Sacha shuddered. “I was burning. There was a man…”

“What man? That goblin?”

“No… a man with red eyes.”

“Red like ours?” asked Ivanka. A surge of restless impatience went through her.

“I think so.”

They both froze then, going silent, listening to a subtle noise, picking up the scent of an unusual, though not unpleasant, smell…

With a soft whoosh of air, a man dropped from the sky and landed before the twins. As one, Ivanka and Sacha dropped into a low crouch, snarling, a feral, bestial sound that seemed to rip from the very center of their beings. He must have been on top of the large boulder all along, watching them, listening to them. This thought flashed through Ivanka’s mind, and she marveled at her ability to think so quickly, to think about so many things at once.

“My children,” the man said. His voice was gentle, melodious, feather-soft. He bore a resemblance to Sacha and Ivanka—the pallor of his skin, the red of his eyes—but Ivanka could sense a great age in him, a tremendous power. This was not a being to be trifled with, easily as powerful in his own way as the Spider-Queen and her mate. The red of his eyes was more muted than theirs, almost cloudy, and his skin had a different texture. He wore an archaic-looking black tunic and trousers, and long black hair fell down over his shoulders. A pendant of Celtic knotwork hung around his neck, gleaming gold against the black fabric of his shirt.

“We’re not your children,” Sacha said. He and Ivanka straightened up, though both remained tense, ready to spring.

“Aleksandr Yakovich Vasiliev,” the man said pleasantly, as though they were old friends, meeting up again after many years’ separation. “And Ivanna Yakovna Vasilieva! What an extraordinary journey the two of you have made!”

The twins risked a quick glance at each other. Was this man for real, with his plumy voice and affected enthusiasms?

“How do you know our names?” asked Ivanka. She realized they’d been speaking in Russian.

“I know everything about you,” the man smiled. He handed a small bundle to each twin: their gold clothes from the Spider-Queen’s realm. Ivanka’s dress was still stained with blood, dry and dark now. She gnashed her teeth at the memory of the Goblin King putting out her eye, but still she slipped the garment over her head. It was all she had to wear at the moment.

“Are you the Devil?” asked Sacha, trepidation evident in his voice.

“How very silly!” the man exclaimed. “I’m no more the Devil than the two of you. No, my name is Aro of Volterra.”

“Where are we?” asked Ivanka. “Who were those disgusting people who tried to burn us? What happened? Why are you here? Wh—”

“Shh,” Aro said, holding up a hand for silence. “Listen to me, Ivanna Yakovna. Those people were petty brutes, barbarians without the faintest inkling of intelligence. And so, they were going to destroy you. Luckily I was nearby, and I saved you from the pyre.”

“We burned,” Sacha said.

“You suffocated,” Aro corrected. “Your hearts were still beating when I found you, though you were close to death. But I healed you, and you awoke, and now you will sleep no more.”

Ivanka was studying Aro’s clothes. If she focused on her memories, she could recall how the barbarians had looked, the filthy rags they’d worn. Peasant garb.

It occurred to her to ask, “What year is this?”

“As the Gregorians reckon it, _Anno Domini_ 1612, though the local peasantry still use the Julian calendar.”

The twins exchanged another look. “We’ve gone back in time,” said Sacha fearfully. “This is the year Mother’s ancestors were hanged for witchcraft.”

“Appropriate, is it not?” Aro’s eyes gleamed. “How far you two have traveled. How much further you will go!”

“Where are we?” asked Ivanka, glancing about the wintry woodland. Although night had nearly fallen, she had no difficulty seeing.

“This is Trawden Forest, in Lancashire,” Aro provided.

“We’re in England?” asked Ivanka.

“Oh, yes—and how fitting. As destiny would have it, Lancashire is your mother’s ancestral homeland. And how fortunate for both of you that I was nearby.” He touched a fingertip to Ivanka’s cheek, and she felt an odd draining sensation, as though Aro were pulling something from her mind.

“You’re psychic,” she accused. “You can read my mind.”

“Very clever girl,” he praised. “Mind-reading is my gift. And you each have a gift, too, don’t you?”

“We have special powers,” Sacha said. “Babushka said they come from the Devil.”

“You must forget your grandmother,” Aro chided. “She was a silly, ignorant, superstitious woman. A tremendous future is ahead of you both.” He clapped his hands together. “Such potential!”

“Potential for what?” asked Ivanka skeptically.

“To be warriors,” Aro said. “Warriors for me. Serve me, and you will have the best of everything. You’ll live in a castle and have everything you could ever want.”

“Will we have to go to school?” asked Sacha.

“You’ll be free to learn anything you wish, study whatever you choose, completely at your leisure.”

“Will we have to do chores?” asked Ivanka.

“That’s what we have servants for.”

The twins exchanged another lightning-fast look.

“What about church?” asked Ivanka.

Aro’s wonderful laugh rang out. Ivanka took that as a no.

“But what are you?” asked Ivanka. “What are _we?_ What do you—?”

They both froze. In the distance, they could hear the sound of voices and laughter. Male voices, rough and intoxicated. The winter wind shifted, carrying with it the scent of rainwater and the night forest—and a perfume so wonderful, so delicious, so utterly compelling that Sacha and Ivanka were in immediate motion, following that scent.

Their bodies moved with the absolute stealth of predatory animals, and with shocking, blinding speed. Ivanka had no difficulty navigating trees, stones, boulders, undergrowth, and patches of wickedly-barbed briars. Although she was barefoot and clad only in a thin silk gown, she moved through the cold, dark, unfamiliar forest as though it had been her own bedroom at home. She felt Sacha moving alongside her, from tree to boulder to forest floor and back up again. The scent in her nose grew stronger and stronger. The dry, itching, burning pain in her throat had intensified, as if a raging hot brick oven extended from her sinuses down the length of her esophagus. Somehow, by some mad instinct, Ivanka knew the sweet perfume would alleviate the unbearable torment.

A dirt track wound through the forest, and on the track walked two adult males, leaning on each other, laughing and singing. They looked very much like the peasants who had tried to burn the twins to death. Rage added fuel to Ivanka’s burning thirst. Like a cougar, she dropped from her perch, landing on the road in front of the two men. Sacha landed beside her.

The two men jolted, instantly sober, eyes full of fear at the sight of the two unearthly children. They spoke in a language that Ivanka recognized now as English—an older variant on the language she knew, strangely accented. The scent of the two men was overwhelming in such close proximity.

Ivanka focused on the man on the right. Enjoying the sight and the scent of his fear, she smiled at him.

The result was gratifying: he dropped to his knees, then onto his side, doubled up and screaming in agony.

Sacha had focused on the man on the left, who now was staggering about, his senses deadened, unable to see or smell or hear or feel anything.

Whatever transformation Aro had effected on the twins, it seemed to have amplified their innate abilities a million-fold. Ivanka delighted in this stunning gift, this ability to cause excruciating pain by simply looking at someone. Not even the Spider-Queen had been able to bestow such power.

Without thinking, she leaped on top of her victim, landing with such force that his bones cracked. He screamed and screamed, and Ivanka seized him by the head and shoulders, yanking him up toward her: it was his neck she lusted for, where the pulse of his life throbbed the most strongly, most near the surface. Her teeth sliced like razors through his skin, and hot, delicious wetness poured down her throat.

The pleasure was so astonishing and the relief so instantaneous that Ivanka’s eyes bulged: she sucked and sucked and sucked, swallowing the hot saline flood in greedy gulps. In a matter of seconds, the man was drained completely, his body white and wax-like. She released her hold, and the corpse slumped to the road. Beside her, Sacha had finished his feast, and he leaned back on his haunches, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and then licking off the glistening redness.

“That’s better,” he sighed.

Ivanka’s hand went to her throat. “It still burns,” she complained.

They both leaped to their feet, whipping around at a soft throat-clearing noise.

“Splendid,” Aro’s voice pronounced. “You children were born for this life.”

Uncertain, Ivanka asked, “Were we meant to do that?” For a moment, she thought that she and Sacha would be in trouble. They’d just killed two men, though the knowledge caused her no sense of guilt or shame. She only worried how Aro would respond; she found herself eager for his approval.

“Of course!” Aro laughed, and the twins relaxed by a fraction.

“I want more,” Sacha said.

“There are villages nearby,” Aro smiled. “You may hunt there. Carefully! Never draw attention to yourselves. But first: you must always dispose of the remains. Come with me.”

The twins picked up the bodies of their victims, both so strong now that the corpses of two full-grown men felt like nothing at all. Deeper in the woods, Aro showed them a ravine, where they pitched the dry husks, covering them with a shower of rocks and leaves and debris.

While they finished this task, Ivanka was thinking, putting together evidence in her mind, reaching one inexorable conclusion.

“Sir,” she began.

“‘Master,’” Aro corrected gently.

“Master,” said Ivanka, “are we vampires now? Is this why we’re so strong, and why we need to drink blood?”

“Indeed,” said Aro, taking her by one hand and Sacha by the other; they moved at a swift pace through the dense forest. Ivanka wasn’t surprised. The revelation felt somehow inevitable, a confirmation of something already known. Anyway, after the past few days, nothing would surprise her.

“Are we going to live forever?” asked Sacha, brightening at the prospect.

“Vampires are immortal,” Aro told them. “There’s nothing that can harm us—except other vampires. And you, my dear ones, have offensive abilities that will make you even more invulnerable than most.”

Immortal _and_ invulnerable? A thrill went through Ivanka.

“Where do you live?” she asked. “Transylvania?”

“Oh, dear, no!” Aro exclaimed. “That backwater? No, Ivanna Yakovna, we live in Tuscany, in a town called Volterra. It’s beautiful and civilized there. I think you’ll find it quite to your liking.”

Ivanka liked this man. He treated her like she was special, important, better than others—better even, perhaps, than other vampires. This was the way she wanted to be treated.

“There is one thing I ask of you both,” said Aro. “You must never speak of where you’ve been; you must never tell anyone that you come from the future. That could be terribly dangerous—do you understand why?”

The twins nodded. “We could alter history,” Sacha provided.

“It will be our secret,” Aro said. “No one else in my family can read minds except me, and I can block certain thoughts from my brothers, so nobody will ever need to know except us.”

“So, where will we say we’re from?” asked Ivanka.

“We’ll say I found you in the Urals,” Aro decided. “In the village of Prokudin-Gorskii. We’ll say you were persecuted as witches—only a small bending of the truth, yes? And to protect your identities, you’ll have new names.”

“But Master, Sacha’s my name,” Sacha complained.

“Not so much a change as a translation,” Aro smiled. “After all, what better disguise than two Russian children with Anglicized names, living in Italy? How perfect a guise for two children who’ve fallen through time from a year so far distant that none living now could even imagine it? Children who grew up in a kingdom that doesn’t yet exist? If I hadn’t seen those things in your minds, I myself would never have dreamed them possible.”

“All right, Master,” said Sacha. “You have a point, I guess.”

“You, Aleksandr Yakovich—you would be called Alexander among the English—Alec for short. How does that name suit you?”

“It’s not bad,” said Sacha. “I don’t mind Alec.”

“Splendid!” Aro beamed. “And you, Ivanna Yakovna—Ivanna is the feminine of Ivan, or John to the English. In these lands, they would have called you Jane.”

“It’s so short,” she complained. “So _plain_.”

“And that’s the beauty of it!” Aro exclaimed. “Jane! So modest, so unpretentious—who would ever imagine a girl named Jane capable of such immense power?”

Ivanka felt a wonderful, warm glow of importance. _Jane_. She liked that. It was like having an alias—a deceptively ordinary name for a most extraordinary, dangerous girl.

“Yes, Master,” she said, smiling up at Aro. “I’ll be your Jane.”

They’d reached the edge of the forest, and they stood overlooking a brown field, stretching in the distance toward a vast hill.

“That’s Pendle Hill,” Aro told them.

Ivanka knew all about the legends of Pendle Hill, the region where her mother’s forebears, the Pendletons, came from, where, in the early seventeenth century, eleven people had been hanged for witchcraft.

In the valley beneath the hill lay a collection of small farms and villages. Ivanka could smell the scents of smoke and livestock, and the delicious scents of the human inhabitants.

“Remember: _keep the secret_ ,” Aro warned them. “Follow my lead. One apiece, for each of you. Quietly.”

Ivanka was too thirsty to argue. “Yes, Master,” she said. Recalling the earlier pleasure that had come from consuming the big man, she thought she would agree to anything Aro asked, so long as she could experience that ecstasy again.

“Yes, Master,” Sacha repeated.

“Excellent,” said Aro. “Alec, Jane—this way.”

And with that, the three pale figures melted out of the dark woods and into the cold, drifting fog of the winter night.

**To be continued…**


	8. Epilogue

Title: **Semi-Charmed Life**

Author: E.A. Week

E-mail: e.a.week at gmail dot com

Summary: Six years after her adventures in the Labyrinth, Sarah is now a senior in college. When two local children disappear under mysterious circumstances, she immediately suspects Jareth’s hand. But as ever, nothing is what it seems.

Category: _Labyrinth._

Distribution: Feel free to rec or link to this story, but **please** drop me at least a brief e-mail and let me know you've done this.

Feedback: Letters of comment are always welcome! Loved it? Hated it? Leave a review, send me a PM or an email and let me know why!

Disclaimer: Copyrights to all characters in this story belong to their respective creators, production companies, and studios. I’m just borrowing them, honest!

Credit where credit is due: The story title is stolen from Third Eye Blind. Epilogue title is stolen from Counting Crows.

Story rating: This story is rated M (mature/ explicit) for language, sexuality, and adult themes.

**Epilogue**

_Goodnight Elisabeth_

The scroll lay on the top shelf of the high bookcase. Sarah focused on it, frowning, trying to project her will outside herself. The paper began to flutter. Dust, as soft and fine as talcum powder, drifted down as the rolled parchment danced. Sarah grinned, euphoric: it was working, it was working! The parchment floated down through space, and she reached out a hand to catch it—

—and the entire contents of the bookshelf came tumbling to the stone floor.

Sarah shrieked jumping out of the way as the avalanche of ancient scrolls and leather-bound volumes landed in a pile on the floor.

“Shit!” she cursed.

From the other side of the library came the sound of light, wonderful laughter. “Oh, my, did someone overdo things?”

“Shut up, you bastard,” Sarah laughed, too struck by the humor of the moment to be angry at him. “Why don’t you get your gorgeous ass over here and help me clean this up?”

“Will it be worth my while?” he teased.

“If you play your cards right, very worth your while.”

Jareth strolled over, and Sarah gave him an affectionate kiss. With one wave of his hand, the mess reversed itself, books, papers, and even dust flying back up to the shelves.

“Try it again,” he suggested.

Sarah focused on the one scroll, high up.

From behind them came a loud smashing noise.

“Oops,” laughed Sarah. “I’m doing really well here, huh?”

“Your energy is excellent, but your coordination and focus need some work. Intent, Sarah—it’s all in your intent.”

“What’d I break this time?”

“A bust of Octha. Don’t fret—there’s hundreds more all over the castle.”

The sound of a deep, booming gong interrupted their conversation.

“Saved by the bell,” Sarah grinned. “I’ve had it for today.” She’d been practicing diligently to develop her magic-working skills: the raw power was there, as Jareth had noted, but it took a surprising amount of concentration to focus that energy into manifest will. Jareth had assured her it would come in time, but Sarah was impatient. She wanted to be able to do everything he could do.

“Elisabeth,” she called. “Time for dinner!”

She heard a quiet rustling; their daughter had been amusing herself elsewhere in the library. A moment later, the baby girl came floating between the high bookshelves, bobbing up and down in a charming, irregular motion. Sarah envied this innate ability; Elisabeth had been levitating herself since she was three months old.

Like a balloon, Elisabeth drifted down into her mother’s arms, babbling happily about something.

“What’ve you got there?” asked Sarah.

Elisabeth uncurled one fat little hand. She was clutching a tiny, terrified-looking spider, just a black speck, but Jareth and Sarah both shuddered.

“Ugh,” Sarah said, carefully plucking the arachnid from her daughter’s hand and flicking it onto a nearby shelf. “Spiders are nasty.”

Elisabeth’s bubbling laughter suggested she thought otherwise.

“C’mon, Lizzie,” she said, kissing the girl’s head. “Aren’t you hungry?”

Elisabeth babbled an affirmative, and the three of them strolled out of the library. The baby held out her arms for Jareth, and Sarah surrendered her with a smile. She loved watching Jareth melt with happiness over their daughter. As they walked, he tossed Elisabeth into the air, high overhead, and she swooshed back down into his arms, burbling her low, lusty baby-laugh, a wonderful _huh-huh-huh_. She looked a lot like Jareth, with her cat-like eyes and delicate, upturned goblin-brows, but her adorable mop of crazy hair was as dark as Sarah’s own.

“Tomorrow,” Sarah declared, “I’m going to get that scroll down from the shelf if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

“You could always send Lizzie to fetch it,” Jareth teased.

“Such a wit,” Sarah responded, putting her hand on the small of his back. Grinning, he tossed Elisabeth into the air, swooped in for a kiss from Sarah, then caught the baby on her way back down.

“You remind me of the babe,” he sang out, tossing the girl again, “the babe with the power…” And he kept singing all the way down to dinner.

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Semi-Charmed Life—Sources  
> Part I  
> Riley Hall is based on Risley Residential College at Cornell University, and Oneida University is based on Cornell itself—not as they are now, but as I knew them briefly, in the early 1990s. The rest of the Oneida campus is fictitious, except for Garrett Hall, which is based on the Hall of Languages at Syracuse University.  
> A.C.H. Smith is the author of the novelization of the Labyrinth movie.  
> “Bewlay Brothers” is a track from David Bowie’s album Hunky Dory (1971).  
> “The Labors of the Months and the Signs of the Zodiac” is the title of the doctoral dissertation by the indomitable MH. My apologies for filching!  
> The fairies I used in this story are based on the fairies from the Torchwood episode “Small Worlds.”  
> Danny Foster is the name of a character played by Matt Smith in the BBC series Party Animals. (Matt, of course, played the Eleventh Doctor on Doctor Who).  
> “Picasso’s blue period” was inspired by a discussion of Halloween costumes on Miss Conduct’s Mind Over Manners blog.  
> Part III  
> Aranea’s spiders are based on the golden orb-weavers of Madagascar, though with a different appearance. The tawny color and stripes I based on a spider I once saw in my house.  
> Jareth’s claws were an idea I got from the Return to Labyrinth manga series, where he is shown as having very long fingernails.  
> Part IV  
> The crypt in the Palace of Aranea is based on the crypts beneath the Capuchin monastery in Palermo, Sicily, where mummified bodies are kept. There was a fascinating article on the mummies of Sicily in the February 2009 issue of National Geographic.  
> The idea of a rift in time is borrowed heavily from Doctor Who—the “asteroid” that struck Aranea is a small chunk of the now-destroyed planet Gallifrey. Note the Seal of Rassilon embedded in the stone. [This detail is now non-canonical following “Day of the Doctor”.]  
> Part V  
> The idea that Toby was bait to get Sarah into the Labyrinth was also taken from the manga, though I had suspected this motivation since I first saw the movie in 1986.  
> Part VI  
> “Feast or Phantom” is a costume idea that I gleaned from conversation with LR. She’ll never know!  
> Pontifex Mynoskyrka is a character borrowed (again) from Return to Labyrinth.  
> Part VII  
> Aro, Jane, and Alec are all characters taken from Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight series. I’m the queen of oddball crossovers.  
> The Pendle witches were real, though I obviously took some creative license with the history.


End file.
